“Why, what about the Manager of the Chicago Stockyards?” asked Mike hotly.
Not noticing Mike’s rising temper, the Englishman went on to tell of a couple of Irishmen who went to Chicago, and while there, visited the Stockyards. One of the managers noticed the interest Erin’s sons took in the great institution, and thought he would play a joke. Pointing to a large herd of cattle, which were being driven into one of the lower buildings, the Manager called attention to them, and when the last tail had disappeared, he waited a few moments and then pulled a great freight elevator rope and down came a large elevator loaded with canned meat.
“There,” said the Manager, slyly winking at an employee near by, “there are all those cows you saw, hides, horns, hoofs, and every thing, all canned and ready for market. Did you ever see anything like that in Ireland, Pat?” he asked.
Pat at once took out his note book and began to write. The Manager looked over Pat’s shoulder and read on Pat’s note book: “The Manager of the Chicago Stockyards is the biggest liar I have met yet.”
Mike was furious as he heard the crowd join in uproarious laughter at our expense.
“Do you call me a liar, sir,” said Mike, squaring himself in front of the joking Englishman.
The Englishman was taken aback at Mike’s earnestness, and, not knowing what to say, merely laughed in a foolish kind of way.
“I allow no man to call me a liar,” said Mike, as he stepped closer to his antagonist. Mike was a Yankee, but I knew there was Irish blood in his veins, and this rash Englishman had aroused him.
I was afraid our aeroplane trip was going to end in a fiasco, when something altogether unexpected happened.
“I believe you, sir,” said a sweet, charming, musical voice, “and you must tell us all about your wonderful voyage over Ireland. It must have been delightful.”