Before we had sat down,
Timothy entered, bearing a horse bucket filled to the brim with ice,
from whence protruded the long necks and split corks of three champagne
bottles.
"Now, Tim," said Archer, "get your own supper, when you've finished with
the cattle; feed the dogs well to-night; and then to bed. And hark you,
call me at five in the morning; we shall want you to carry the game-bag
and the drinkables; take care of yourself, Tim, and good night!"
"No need to tell him that," cried Tom, "he's something like yourself; I
tell you, Archer, if Tim ever dies of thirst, it must be where there is
nothing wet, but water!"
"Now hark to the old scoundrel, Frank," said Archer, "hark to him pray,
and if he doesn't out-eat both of us, and out-drink anything you ever
saw, may I miss my first bird to-morrow--that's all! Give me a slice of
beef, Frank; that old Goth would cut it an inch thick, if I let him
touch it; out with a cork, Tom! Here's to our sport to-morrow!"
"Uh; that goes good!" replied Tom, with an oath, which, by the apparent
gusto of the speaker, seemed to betoken that the wine had tickled his
palate--"that goes good! that's different from the darned red trash you
left up here last time.
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