"Faith, yer honour, I haven't tasted a dhrop of anythin' barrin' tay since yesterday noon at Eight Bells. May I die this minnit if I have, sor," boldly asserted the accused in a rich Irish brogue that was as distinct as the doctor's voice. "It's the rheumaticks, sure! I've got 'em in the legs bad this toime and can't hould mesilf up at all, nor walk more than a choild!" "Macgilpin, just diagnose this case for me," cried the doctor to his assistant. "What does he smell of?" "Whuskey," replied the assistant-surgeon, a rawboned expert from Edinburgh, who had only recently donned Her Majesty's uniform and brought his north-country accent with him when he came southwards. "There's nae doot aboot that. He smells o' whuskey, and bad whuskey, tae!" "Begorrah, yer nose is wrong, sor, and the doctor's roight, as he always is, sor, beggin' yer pardon," said the culprit, confessing his offence in his anxiety to stand up for the medical insight of the chief, with whom he had served before and whose professional pride he knew how to work upon. "It was rhum, sure enough." "You rascal!" shouted out Dr Nettleby. "Why, not a moment ago you swore you hadn't tasted a drop of anything but tea alone since yesterday." "Faith, yer honner, I didn't know it wor rhum till too late, sor. I sware, sor, I droonk it out av a taypot." "Out of a teapot, man?" "Yis, sor, I'll till yer honner how it wor, sure," explained the wily fellow, who could tell from the doctor's change of tone that his offence was condoned and that he need fear no worse consequences now than one of his usual lectures, which only went in at one ear and out at the other, as Dr Nettleby himself said. "I wint over to the rendywoo last noight be the cap'en's orders, sor, fur to say if there wor any more hands awaitin' to jine. Faith an' there I mates me wife's first cousin, Bridget O'Halloran, as is merried now be the same token to Sargint Lintstock." "Sergeant Lintstock?" "Ay, sor, that same, which makes him, sure, me second cousin once removed, though, faith, he's me soupayrior orfiser! But, as I were a-tellin' ye, sor, in comes Bridget whilst I were talkin' to the jintleman behoind the bar at the rendywoo. I were jist axin' what the cap'en tells me to axe him; an' `Mike,' says she, cordial like, `have a partin' glass wid me fur the sake of the ould country as ye're abut to lave.' "`Faith an' that's more nor I dare, Bridget,' says I. `I promist the docthor, sure, I wouldn't touch another dhrop o' sperrits for the nixt four-an'-twenty hours, as I'm a livin' sinner!' "`But I don't want ye to dhrink sperrits,' says she. `Me an' me frind Mistress Wilkins here is jist havin' a cup of tay, sure; an' axes ye to jine us, that's all!'