deep into his pockets. At last, through the dense fumes within the house, Bella Coobragh noted Stephen's absence, and "Where's your man?" she said to 'Liza, with a tantalising light in her eyes.
"Maybe where yours is, Bella," said 'Liza, with a toss of the head; "near enough, perhaps, but not visible to the naked eye."
From much eating they went on to much drinking, and the bride protested that she should take it as an affront if it could ever be said of her that any man had gone home sober from 'Liza Killey's wedding. The men smiled loftily at this unnecessary warning, and then straightened their mahogany faces for the discussion of a grave and urgent question, to wit, what could be done towards the livelihood of the big bridegroom, for "though a good-natureder chap wasn't nowheres on the island," it was "plain to see" that, besides being "foreign," he was "a bit wake in his intellecs."
And at first, while they sucked and pulled at their pipes, the men were unanimous on the generality that everything depended on a good beginning, for true it was that in this world "poor once was poor alwis," and if fate was straight agen ye you were like a lugger without helm and anchor, rolling in the throw of the saa, and however ye prayed for blessin' it was mighty ticklish steerin', and you were sure and sartin to get foul of some other fella's jib, or tangled in another fella's nets, and when ye'd ragged and tore yer best, no matter how ye steered, you were safe to strike on a rock.
It was only when they came to the particular that they could not agree as to the industry that Stephen ought to follow. Kane Wade was for the boats, Cleave Kinley was for the mines, and old Coobragh was for herding. So they fell to wild talk, in which 'Liza plied them with yet more drink to keep them quiet, threw old clothes over them when they squared their fists in each other's faces, removed their walking-sticks out of reach of their itching hands, and finally tied up the poker to the chain that hung down the chimney. No such measures served in the end to preserve peace and amity, for with every fresh draught their wisdom became more cloudy, and in the heat of argument and the absence of other weapons, they made at each other at length with the bones of their recent feast.
Thus Nary Crowe, armed with a shank of mutton, levelled a swingeing blow at the head of Matt Mylchreest, who returned it on Nary's fat cheeks with the broad side of a shoulder blade.
