“Come, come,--I like thee for that, comrade,” said the third traveller; “now that's nature;--so shake hands, both of'ee, lads.” “Oh! wid all my heart!” said the Irishman; “Darby Doherty isn't the boy to bear malice: but when a big fellow, with all his legs and things o' that kind left, tells me about my fragments, it puts me up--do you see?--puts me up, sir:--though I'm not one for quarrelling, yet I'd like to have a pelt at him; but it's before breakfast--Why should he notice my legs? It's true then, sure enough, I've only one arm, one leg, one wife and a child;---just a thing of a sort:--but suppose it's my fancy to be so; why should he throw it out at me?--wid his dirty pack--his case of trumpery there!--May be I like number one; why shouldn't I?--Now if I was given to quarrelling, here's an excuse, isn't there? But I'm not.--How does he know, tinker--for a tinker I take you to be”-- Here the tinker bowed, and again requested Mister Doherty to shake hands with the North Briton. By his endeavours, in a few moments, peace was restored; the Irishman seemed to have forgotten what had passed, but the Scotchman sat rather sullenly by the side of the fire, which blazed away very pleasantly. The important subject of breakfast was soon broached, and Doherty made a proposal to club the contents of their wallets. The tinker had a loaf of black, dry, barley-bread, and a triangular morsel of cheese, which, Doherty said, was fit food for cannibals, who wore hatchets in their mouths instead of teeth. The pedlar drew forth a tin can, containing a small quantity of meal. The Irishman had nothing eatable, but, as he assured his companions, an appetite that would make up for the deficiency. “I never carry any food outside my skin,” said he; “when I've a trifle of money to spare, I invariably invest it in whiskey. I've just nine-pen'orth in my bottle here now; or may be more, for it wasn't empty when I made the last purchase; and I'd share it most generously wid ye, if ye'd anything aqual in value to offer me in return:--but you, tinker, have nothing but black bread, and a little yellow bit of granite, you call cheese--” “Nothing,--that's it,” replied the tinker; “except a feed for the poney. He! he! mayhap you'll eat a oat?” “Oh! go to Otaheite,--where Captain Cook couldn't dress his dinner. Do you take me for Cæsar, or any similar savage?--And you, Mr. Pedlar, have nought in your wallet but dry meal, to make cold stirabout, or a roley-poley bolus, worked up wid water, in the hollow of your hand.” “Didna I tell ye so?” said the pedlar; “and a wee bit it is, as ye may see.” “And you've nothing in the wide world else?” “Nought that ye can eat.” “Then ould Ireland for ever! I'm a made man!--If you've nothing eatable but meal, these red herrings are mine: I just picked them up from the grass where your pack stood, a while ago, when you were dipping into it for the meal-can. They can't be yours, you'll own!”