If it wasn't for the whisky I should be dead.

There's a rush of wind; I am glad for one thing there is no dead timber overhead.

He'll be drinking at all the places coming along to get his courage up to bounce me, but there ain't a public-house on the road six miles from this, so the drink will have pretty much died out of him by the time he gets to me, and if I can get him to sit in this rain, and smoke 'backer for five minutes, he won't be particular owdacious.

I'll hide the grog, too, between the stones.

He'll be asking for a drink the minute he comes.