192 TOM draw's visit to pine brook. 



the old Trojan look at, much less taste; and Harry was 

 compelled to produce the liquor stand, well stored with 

 potent waters, when at the nick of time McTavish entered 

 in full fig for a regular slap-up party, not knowing at 

 all whom he had been asked to meet. INot the least 

 discomposed, however, that capital fellow was instantly 

 at home, and as usual, up to every sort of fun. 



"What, Draw," said he, "who the devil thought of see- 

 ing you here — when did you come down? Oh! the dew, 

 certainly," he continued, in reply to Archer, who was 

 pressing a drink on him — "the mountain dew for me — 

 catch a Highlander at any other dram, when Whasky's to 

 the fore— ay, Tom?" 



"Catch you at any dram, exceptin' that what's strongest. 

 See to him now!" as Mae tossed off his modicum, and 

 smacked his lips approvingly; "see to him now! I'd jist 

 as lief drink down so much fire, and he pours it in — pours 

 it in, jist like as one it was mother's milk to the darned 

 critter." 



"Ple-ase Sur, t' dinner's re-ady," announced Timothy, 

 throwing open the folding doors, and displaying the front 

 room, with a beautiful fire blazing, and a good old fash- 

 ioned round table, covered with exquisite white damask- 

 linen, and laid with four covers, each flanked by a most 

 unusual display of glasses — a mighty bell-mouthed rum- 

 mer, namely, on a tall slender stock with a white spiral 

 line running up through the centre, an apt substitute 

 for that most awkward of all contrivances, the ordinary 

 champagne glass — a beautiful green hock goblet, with a 

 wreath of grapes and vine leaves wrought in relief about 

 the rim — a massy water tumber elaborately diamond-cut — 

 and a capacious sherry-glass so delicate and thin that the 

 slender crystal actually seemed to bend under the pressure 

 of your lip; nor, were the liquors wanting in proportion^ 

 two silver wine-coolors, all frosted over with the exuda- 

 tions from the ice within, displayed the long necks of a 

 champagne flask and a bottle of Johannisbergher, and 

 four decanters hung out their labels of Port, Madeira, 

 brown Sherry, and Amontillado — while two or three black, 

 copper-wired bottles, in the chimney-corner, announced a 

 stock of heavy-wet, for such as should incline to malt. I 

 had expected from Tom's lips some preternatural burst of 

 wonder, at this display of preparation, the like of which. 



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