"Him that c'd lay down th' naygers in windrows all day, an' dhrink, an' play car-rds, an' make love all noight--an' at 'em agin in th' marnin'! An' now Oi've found um Oi'll shtay by um till wan av us burries th' other. For whilst a McKim roams th' earth James Dunnigan's place is to folly um. "An', Lord be praised, he's a foightin' man--but a McKim that don't dhrink! Wurrah! Maybe he wasn't failin' roight, or th' liquor didn't look good enough fer um. Oi'll thry um agin." Bill threw off the blankets and sat up on the edge of the bunk. "That grub smells good, Daddy," he sniffed. "Aye, an 'twill tashte good, too, av ye fly at ut befure ut gits cold. Ye've had shleep enough fer two min--Captain Fronte'd git along fer wakes at a toime on foorty winks in th' saddle." "I am afraid I will have a hard time living up to Captain Fronte's standard," laughed Bill, as he adjusted his bandages. "Well, thin, Oi'll tell yez th' fir-rst thing Captain Fronte'd done phwin his two feet hit th' flure: he'd roar fer a dhrink av good liquor. An' thin he'd ate a dozen or two av thim pork-chops, an' wash 'em down wid a gallon av black coffee--an' he'd be roight fer an-nything from a carouse wid th' brown dancin' Nautch gir-rls, to a brush in th' hills wid their fightin' brown brothers. "Th' liquor's waitin'--ut moightn't be as good as ye're used, but Oi've seen Captain Fronte himself shmack his lips over worse. An' as fer th' tin cup--he'd dhrink from a batthered tomaty can or a lady's shlipper, an' rasp th' dhregs from his t'roat wid a cur-rse or a song, as besht fitted th' toime or th' place he was in." The old man began to pour out the liquor: "Say phwin," he cried, "an' Oi've yit to see th' McKim 'twud hurry th' wor-rd." Bill crossed to the old man, who, propped against the table, watched the contents of the bottle gurgle and splash into the huge tin cup, and laid a hand upon his arm. "That will do, Daddy," he said. The man ceased to pour and peered inquisitively into the cup. "'Taint half full yit!" he protested, passing it to Bill, who set it before him upon the table, where the rich fumes reached his nostrils as he spoke: "This whisky," he began, "smells good--plenty good enough for any man. But, you don't seem to understand. I don't drink whisky--good whisky, or bad whisky, or old whisky, or new whisky, or red, white, and blue whisky--or any other kind of booze. "I have drunk it--bottles of it--kegs of it--barrels of it, I suppose, for I played the game from Harlem to the Battery. And then I quit." "Ye ain't tellin' me ye're timperence?" The old man inquired with concern as he would have inquired after an ailment.