He told me about the mountains that could be seen from his cabin, and named several of the more important hills. I noticed that a number of the names had the “devil” in them. One peak he called the “devil’s Needle.” Another hill, with a hollow place in its side was the “devil’s Bit.” I thought I would see if there was any Irish in him, and I said:
“His Satanic Majesty seems to own a great deal of property among these hills, judging by their names.”
“Indade he does, sor,” said this son of Erin, “but he is like most of our landlords, he makes his headquarters in London, sor.”
I saw it was no difference where you find him, in palace, mansion, villa, cottage, cabin or even hovel, an Irishman is always the same. Everywhere you will find him genial, witty, good-natured. It must be the effect of the Irish atmosphere.
When Mike had the motor going again we soon made our ascent aloft, leaving our Irish cabiners watching us in awe.
We reached Cork again shortly after noon. After a brief rest, we spent the rest of the day in taking the airship to pieces, and re-packing it.
Next morning we were ready for our ocean voyage and took the early train from Cork to Queenstown. Five days later we reached New York. We had been absent considerably less than a month.
Mike has since returned to Ireland. He did not take the aeroplane, but he took along a big trunk. When he returns, as he will in a few weeks, the Connor house in New York State, will have a beautiful young Irish girl as its queen, and my good friend, Mr. O’Neill will come out to America next year to see his daughter, Mrs. Michael Connor. Such was the strange ending of our aeroplane trip. As I think of it, I often say to myself: “It was the result of the Irish atmosphere.”
Transcriber’s Notes
[Page 28]—changed fraid to afraid