"Why don't you get one?" The answer left my mind and traveled like a flash to the glottis, but that part of the machinery was out of order and the answer hung fire. I paused, drew a long breath that strained the string. Then matching his thin smile with a thick grin I replied:
"Did yer honor iver work fur four shillin's a week and share it wid nine others?"
"No!" he said and the imprisoned smile was released.
"Well, if ye iver do, shure ye'll be lucky to haave skin, let alone shirt!"
"You consider yourself lucky, then?"
"Aye, middlin'."
He galloped away and I lay down flat on my back, wiped the sweat from my brow with the sleeve of my jacket, turned the hair loose and eased up the string.
That night at the first sound of the farm-yard bell I took to my heels through the fields, through the yard and down the Belfast road to Withero's stone-pile. Willie was just quitting for the day. I was almost breathless, but I blurted out what then seemed to me the most important happening in my life.
Willie took his eye-protectors off and looked at me.
"So ye had a crack wi' the masther, did ye?"