“Hard it is, and hungry it is,” sighed the Man; “starved daft I am for a taste of nourishment, a blind man’s dog would pity me. If I see a cat I’ll eat it; I could bite the nose off a duck.”
They did not converse any more for a time, not until Tom Tool asked him what was the name of his grand cousin, and then the Man from Kilsheelan was in a bedazement, and he was confused.
“I declare, on my soul, I’ve forgot his little name. Wait now while I think of it.”
“Was it McInerney then?”
“No, not it at all.”
“Kavanagh? the Grogans? or the Duffys?”
“Wait, wait while I think of it now.”
Tom Tool waited; he waited and all until he thought he would burst.
“Ah, what’s astray wid you? Was it Phelan—or O’Hara—or Clancy—or Peter Mew?”
“No, not it at all.”