Come, pass round the bottle. Here's
to you, Master Tongs--Master Brooks, I drink your very good health. But
fill up, fill up--you ain't got nothing in your tumbler."
"No, he's a sneak--you're a sneak, Brooks, if you don't fill up to the
hub. Go the whole hog, boy, and don't twist your mouth as if the stuff
was physic. It's what I call nation good, now; no mistake in it, I tell
you."
"Hah! that's a true word--there's no mistake in this stuff. It is jest
now what I calls ginywine."
"True Monongahely, Master Bunce. Whoever reckoned to find a Yankee
pedler with a _raal_ good taste for Monongahely? Give us your fist, Mr.
Bunce; I see you know's what's what. You ain't been among us for
nothing. You've larned something by travelling; and, by dogs! you'll
come to be something yit, if you live long enough--if so be you can only
keep clear of the _old range_."
The pedler winced under the equivocal compliments of his companion, but
did not suffer anything of this description to interfere with the
vigorous prosecution of his design.
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