By St.
Patrick, I wish it would come, raw or cooked, for my bowels are twisting like worms on a hook." "Oh, Pat, be a good man; can't you go and pick some berries?
my stomach is like an empty bag." "Faith, my legs ain't better than yours," answered the Irishman, patting his knee with a kind of angry gesture.

And for the first time we perceived that the legs of both of them were shockingly swollen.
"If we could only meet with the Welsh Indians or a gold mine," resumed the short man.
"Botheration," exclaimed his irascible companion.

"Bother them all--the Welsh Indians and the Welsh English." [Illustration: "Faith, my legs ain't better than yours."] We saw that hunger had made the poor fellows rather quarrelsome, so we kindly interfered with a tremendous war-whoop.

The fat one closed his eyes, and allowed himself to fall down, while his fellow in misfortune rose up in spite of the state of his legs.
"Come," roared he, "come, ye rascally red devils, do your worst without marcy, for I am lame and hungry." There was something noble in his words and pathetic in the action.
Roche, putting his hand on his shoulder, whispered some Irish words in his ear, and the poor fellow almost cut a caper.

"Faith," he said, "if you are not a Cork boy you are the devil; but devil or no, for the sake of the old country, give us something to eat--to me and that poor Welsh dreamer.