By this time, a number of the passengers who sat on the same side of the car with me had raised their windows, and were now listening to this dialogue, much amused. The conversation was carried on in loud, harsh tones.
“F’rgit m’ counthry an’ th’ cause? Och! I shud thaink naught,” said the Milesian traveler, who was now about to ascend the steps to the platform of the car I was in.
He paused a moment, before blundering up, and then struck up a patriotic Fenian song, the first verse of which was something like this:
“Och! Kra! Kri mo kreeh! mee barry braugh,
Augh quih-queeh, McQuairy, O!
Grah me Kreh! Grah me Kree! Ahkushlee! Hurrah!
Mike graughin, Och borry bro!”
“Good me b’y!” exclaimed his friend, grasping his hand. “Wull done, that! Now, good-by, Mike. Tak care o’ yer-sel!”
“Good-by, till ye, Zhammie. God be good till ye!”
After shaking hands cordially, they parted. He in his shirt-sleeves, James, by name, walked away, with some sadness naturally engendered by the parting; while Michael entered the car and took a seat by the darkey—for all the rest were entirely occupied by this time—his saw, as he sat down, accidentally grazing the darkey’s cheek, and coming within half-an-inch of sawing one of his white eyes out.