Divil a word could I shpake, but I winked at him, and Captain Masham shtandin’ by whips out a flask. ‘Put that betune his teeth,’ says he. Whin I got it there, trust me fur not lettin’ it go. An’ the Sergeant-Major says to me: ‘I have hopes of you, Kilquhanity, when you do be drinkin’ loike that!’
"‘A foine healthy corpse I am; an’ a foine thirsty, healthy corpse I am!’ says I."
A dozen hands stretched out to give Kilquhanity a drink, for even the best story-teller of Pontiac could not have told his tale so well.
Yet the success achieved by Kilquhanity at such moments was discounted through long months of mingled suspicion and doubtful tolerance. Although both he and his wife were Catholics (so they said, and so it seemed), Kilquhanity never went to confession or took the Blessed Sacrament. The Curé spoke to Kilquhanity’s wife about it, and she said she could do nothing with her husband. Her tongue once loosed, she spoke freely, and what she said was little to the credit of Kilquhanity. Not that she could urge any horrible things against him; but she railed at minor faults till the Curé dismissed her with some good advice upon wives rehearsing their husband’s faults, even to the parish priest.
Mrs. Kilquhanity could not get the Curé to listen to her, but she was more successful elsewhere. One day she came to get Kilquhanity’s pension, which was sent every three months through M. Garon, the Avocat. After she had handed over the receipt prepared beforehand by Kilquhanity, she replied to M. Garon’s inquiry concerning her husband in these words: "Misther Garon, sir, such a man it is—enough to break the heart of anny woman. And the timper of
