indiscreet adventure of Abraham the Sailor with the Beautiful Miss Taylor. …
"Some boy, that compatriot o' yourn, John," remarked the Bucking Bronco, "got a reg'lar drorin' room repertory, ain't 'e?" and the soul of 'Erb was proud within him, and he drank another pint of wine.
"Nutthink like a little—hic—'armony," he admitted modestly, "fer making a swarry sociable an' 'appy. Wot I ses is—hic—wot I ses is—hic—wot I ses is—hic. …"
"It is so, sonny, and that's almighty solemn truth," agreed the Bucking Bronco.
"Wot I ses is—hic—" doggedly repeated 'Erb.
"Right again, sonny…. He knows what 'e's sayin' all right," observed the American, turning to the Russians.
"Wot I ses is—hic—" repeated 'Erb dogmatically. …
"'Hic jacet!' Monsieur would say, perhaps?" suggested Feodor.
'Erb turned upon the last speaker with an entirely kindly contempt.
"Don't yer igspose yer hic-norance," he advised. "You're a foreiller. You're a neathen. You're a pore hic-norant foreiller. Wot I was goin' ter say was …" But 'Erb lost the thread of his discourse. "Wisht me donah wos 'ere," he confided sadly to Mikhail Kyrilovitch, wept with his arm about Mikhail's waist, his head upon Mikhail's shoulder, and anon lapsed into dreams. Feodor roused the somnolent 'Erb with the offer of another bottle of wine, and changed places with Mikhail. 'Erb accepted this
