Even Tom Draw, who ever was much disposed to look upon strange potables
as trash, and who had eyed the whole proceedings with ill-concealed
suspicion and disdain, when he had quaffed off a pint-beaker full, which
he did without once moving the vessel from his head, smacked his lips
with a report which might have been heard half a mile off, and which
resembled very nearly the crack of a first-rate huntsman's whip.
"That's not slow, now!" he said, half dubiously, "to tell the truth now,
that's first rate; I reckon, though, it would be better if there wasn't
that tea into it--it makes it weak and trashy-like!"
"You be hanged!" answered Harry, "that's mere affectation--that smack of
your lips told the story; did you ever hear such an infernal sound? I
never did, by George!"
"Begging your pardon, Measter Archer," interposed Timothy, pulling his
forelock, with an expression of profound respect, mingled with a
ludicrous air of regret, at being forced to differ in the least degree
from his master; "begging your pardon, Measter Archer, that was a
roommer noise, and by a vary gre-at de-al too, when Measter McTavish
sneezed me clean oot o' t' wagon!"
"What's that?--what the devil's that?" cried I; "this McTavish must be a
queer genius; one day I hear of his frightening a bull out of a meadow,
and the next of his sneezing a man out of a phaeton.
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