you, Matt. Was too much engaged with my new friend, I
suppose. Come, I'll introdooce him to you."

"Look alive, then," growled Quintal, impatiently, for he seemed to have
smelt the spirit, as the warhorse is said to smell the battle from afar.
"Give us hold o' the cup and fill up; fill up, I say, to the brim.
None o' your half measures for me."

He took a mouthful, rolled it round and round with his tongue once or
twice, and swallowed it.

"Heh, that's _it_ once more! Come, here's your health, McCoy! We'll be
better friends than ever now; good luck to 'ee."

McCoy thought that there was room for improvement in their friendship,
but said nothing, as he watched his comrade pour the fiery liquid slowly
down his throat, as if he wished to prolong the sensation.

"Another," he said, holding out the cup.

"No, no; drink fair, Matt Quintal; wotever you do, drink fair. It's my
turn now."

"Your turn?" retorted Quintal, fiercely; "why, you've bin swillin' away
for half-an-hour before I came."

"No, Matt, no; honour bright. I'd only just begun. But come, we won't
quarrel over it. Here's the other half o' the nut, so we'll drink
together. Now, hold steady."

"More need for me to give you that advice; you shake the bottle as if
you'd got the ague. If you spill a drop, now, I'll--I'll flatten your
big nose on your ugly face."

Not in the least hurt by such uncomplimentary threats, McCoy smiled as
he filled the cup held by his comrade. The spirit was beginning to tell
on him, and the smile was of that imbecile character which denotes
perfect self-satisfaction and good-will. Having poured the remainder
into his own cup, he refixed the bottle to the tube of the "still," and
while more of the liquid was being extracted, the cronies sat down on
low stools before the stove, to spend a pleasant evening in poisoning
themselves!

It may be interesting and instructive, though somewhat sad, to trace the
steps by which those two men, formed originally in God's image, reduced
themselves, of their own free will, to a level much lower than that of
the brutes.

"Doesn't the taste of it bring back old times?" said McCoy, holding his
cup to the light as he might have held up a transparent glass.

"Ay," assented Quintal, gradually becoming amiable, "the good old times
before that fool Fletcher Christian indooced us to jine him. Here's to
'ee, lad, once more."

"Why, when I think o' the jolly times I've had at the Blue B