made up one of their party in
the guise of a devil before they flung a bucket of water over their
victim.

'Where am I?' asked the fellow, looking round 'skeered.'

'In hell,' retorted the devil, with exaggerated solemnity.

'Heaven bless your honour, as you know the ways of the place, will you
get me a drop of drink?'

But a mere drop does not suffice as a friend of mine found out.

He was wont to reward his car-driver with a glass of whisky, and gave it
to him in an antique glass, which did not contain as much as cabby
wished for.

'That's a very quare glass, captain,' says he.

'Yes,' replied Captain Stevens; 'that's blown glass.'

'Why, Captain,' says the carman, 'the man must have been damned short in
the breath that blew that.'

This would no doubt have been the opinion of a Dublin carman who was in
the habit of bringing a present to an acquaintance of mine from a lady
living at some distance, and being recompensed with a glass of grog. By
degrees, however, the water grew to be the predominant partner in the
union within the glass, so at last he burst out in disgust:--

'If you threw a tumbler of whisky over Carlisle Bridge, it would be
better grog than that at the Pigeon House.'

Which being interpreted into cockneyism would read, 'If you threw a
glass of whisky over Westminster Bridge it would be better grog than
that at Greenwich Pier.'

Still all consumption of liquor is not confined to Ireland, and I well
remember when I was with Bogue in Scotland, that one night he had a
fellow-farmer of the very best type to dine with him, and about ten
o'clock, with much difficulty, my man and I hoisted him into the saddle.

An hour afterwards we heard a knock at the door, and a voice rather
quaveringly inquired:--

'Pleash, can you tell me the way to X., I have lost my way?'

The tracks next morning revealed he had been riding round and round the
house without once quitting the vicinity, which was almost as bad as
Mark Twain's famous nocturnal perambulation with his pedometer, when he
went on a tramp abroad!

Of potation stories I could tell scores more, and the Tralee Club has
seen enough whisky imbibed within its walls to drown all the members.

A quaint character named Mullane was at one time steward, and decidedly
astonished a member, who was a total abstainer, by charging him in his
bill for three tumblers of punch.

'Well,' explained Mullane, 'it's this way. Some take six tumblers, and
some t