"A bottle o' rum!" said the man Bob, and taking it up, very
abstracted of eye, he removed the cork, sniffed at it, tasted it,
took a gulp, and handed it over to his companion, who also looked
at, sniffed at, and tasted it. "And what d'ye make o' that,
Jeremy?"
"Tasted better afore now!" growled Jeremy, and immediately took
another pull.
"Sang-widges, too!" pursued the man Bob, in a ruminating tone,
"an' I always was partial to chicken!" and, forthwith, opening
the dainty parcel, he helped himself, and his companion also.
"What d'ye make o' them, Jeremy?" he inquired, munching.
"I've eat wuss!" rumbled Jeremy, also munching.
"Young cove, they does you credit," said the man Bob, nodding to
me with great urbanity, "great credit--there ain't many
misfort'nates as can per-jooce such sang-widges as them, though,
to be sure, they eats uncommon quick 'old 'ard there, Jeremy--"
But, indeed, the sandwiches were already only a memory, wherefore
his brow grew black, and he glared at the still munching Jeremy,
who met his looks with his usual impenetrable gloom.
"A pipe and 'bacca!" mused the man Bob, after we had ridden some
while in silence, and, with the same serene unconsciousness of
manner, he took the pipe, filled it, lighted it, and puffed with
an air of dreamy content.
"Jeremy is a good-ish sort," he began, with a complacent flourish
of the pipe, "a good-ish sort, but cross-grained--Lord! young
cove, 'is cross-grainedness is ekalled only by 'is per-werseness,
and 'cause why?--'cause 'e don't smoke--(go easy wi' the rum,
Jeremy!) there's nothin' like a pipe o' 'bacca to soothe such
things away (I got my eye on ye, Jeremy!)--no, there's nothin'
like a pipe o' 'bacca. Look at me--I were the per-wersest infant
that ever was, till I took to smokin', and to-day, whatever I am,
I ain't per-werse, nor yet cross-grained, and many a misfort'nate
cove, as is now no more--'as wept over me at partin'--"
"They generally always do!" growled Jeremy, uncorking the
rum-bottle with his teeth.
"No, Jerry, no," returned the other, blowing out a cloud of
smoke; "misfort'nates ain't all the same--(arter you wi' that
bottle!)--you 'ave Cryers, and Laughers, and Pray-ers, and Silent
Ones, and the silent coves is the dangerousest--(arter you wi'
the bottle, Jeremy!)--now you, my covey," he went on, tapping my
hand gently with his pipe-stem, "you ain't exactly talkative, in
fact--not wishin' no offense, I might say as you was inclined to
be one o' the Silent Ones. Not as I 'olds that again' you--far
from it, only you reminds me of a young cove as 'ad the misfort'n
to get 'isself took for forgery, and who--arter me a-talkin' and
a-chattin' to 'im in my pleasant way went and managed to commit
sooicide--under my very nose--which were 'ardly nice, or even
respectable, considerin'--(arter you wi' the bottle, Jeremy!)"