Pulling short up where a jog across the road, constructed--after the
damnable mode adopted in all the hilly portions of the interior--in
order to prevent the heavy rains from channelling the descent, afforded
him a chance of stopping on the hill, so as to slack his traces. "How
now," he exclaimed; "what the deuce ails you now, you old rhinoceros?"
"Oh, Archer, I feels bad; worst sort, by Judas! It's that milk punch, I
reckon; it keeps a raising--raising, all the time like..."
"And you want to lay it, I suppose, like a ghost, in a sea of whiskey;
well, I've no especial objection! Here, Tim, hand the case bottle, and
the dram cup! No! no! confound you, pass it this way first, for if Tom
once gets hold of it, we may say good-bye to it altogether. There," he
continued, after we had both taken a moderate sip at the superb old
Ferintosh, "there, now take your chance at it, and for Heaven's sake do
leave a drop for Jem and Garry; by George now, you shall not drink it
all!" as Tom poured down the third cup full, each being as big as an
ordinary beer-glass. "There was above a pint and a half in it when you
began, and now there's barely one cup-full between the two of them.
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