"Aye, quite a crack."
"He mistuk ye fur a horse!" he said. This damper on my enthusiasm drew an instant reply.
"'Deed no, nor an ass naither."
Willie bundled up his hammers and prepared to go home. He took out his flint and steel. Over the flint he laid a piece of brown paper, chemically treated, then he struck the flint a sharp blow with the steel, a spark was produced, the spark ignited the paper, it began to burn in a smoldering, blazeless way, he stuffed the paper into the bowl of his pipe, and began the smoke that was to carry him over the journey home. I shouldered some of his hammers and we trudged along the road toward Antrim.
"Throth, I know yer no ass, me bhoy, though Jamie's a good dale ov a mule, but yer Ma's got wit enough fur the family. That answer ye gave Misther Chaine was frum yer Ma. It was gey cute an'll git ye a job, I'll bate."
I had something else to tell him, but I dreaded his critical mind. When we got to the railway bridge he laid his hammers on the wall while he relit his pipe. I saw my last opportunity and seized it.
"Say, Willie, did ye iver haave a feelin' that made ye feel fine all over and—and—made ye pray?"
"I niver pray," he said. "These wathery-mouthed gossoons who pray air jist like oul Hughie Thornton wi' his pockets bulgin' wi' scroof (crusts). They're naggin at God from Aysther t' Christmas t' fill their pockets! A good day's stone breakin's my prayer. At night I jist say, 'Thank ye, Father!' In th' mornin' I say 'Morra, Father, how's all up aroun' th' throne this mornin'?'"
"An' does He spake t' ye back?"
"Ov coorse, d'ye think He's got worse manners nor me? He says, 'Hello, Willie,' says He. 'How's it wi' ye this fine mornin'?' 'Purty fine, Father, purty fine,' says I. But tell me, bhoy, was there a girl aroun' whin that feelin' struck ye?"