"You've no friends here, have you?"

"Freens, did ye say? I've no freens nearer than Scotland."

"You must have had a hard time of it," I whispered.

"Ye may say so. I've slept four nights in the docks, and never managed
to stow till to-night. There's a watchman about."

"I know," said I.

"I shouldn't have got in to-night, but the misconducted body's asleep,
though I'll say it's the first time I saw him sleeping these four days.
Eh, sirs! there's an awful indifference to responsibility, when a man
does a thing like yon. But it'll be whisky, I'm thinking; for I heard
him at clishmaclavers with one of these randy, drucken old Eirishers."

My blood boiled. "She was _not_ drunk!" said I. "And she's--she's a
great friend of mine."

"Whisht! whisht, man! We'll be heard. I ask your pardon, I'm sure."

I made no reply. The Scotchman's tone was unpleasantly dry. Besides it
was very difficult to give vent to one's just indignation in whispers,
and I still felt giddy, though I was resting my back against some of the
lumber, rather comfortably.

"You'll no be Eirish, yourself?" the Scotchman asked in his own accent,
which was as strong in its way as Biddy's.