"'Tis on'y a matter o' _will_," says he. "'Tis nothin' more than that.
An' I'm fair ashamed," he groaned, in sincere emotion, "to think ye're
shackled, hand an' foot, to a bottle o' ginger-ale. For shame, lad--t'
come t' such a pass." He was honest in his expostulation; 'twas no
laughing matter--'twas an anxiously grave concern for my welfare. He
disapproved of the beverage--having never tasted it. "_You_," cries
he, with a pout and puff of scorn, "an' your bilge-water! In irons
with a bottle o' ginger-ale! Could ye but see yourself, Dannie, ye'd
quit quick enough. 'Tis a ridiculous picture ye make--you an' your
bottle. 'Twould not be hard t' give it up, lad," he would plead.
"Ye'll manage it, Dannie, an ye'd but put your mind to it. Ye'd be
nervous, I've no doubt, for a spell. But what's that? Eh, what's
that--ag'in your health?"