“'Thot Oi am not!' says Oi, spakin' good English, so's to be sure he'd understand. 'Oi'm Pat MacPherson.'
“But he couldn' ken. Thin we left th' temple an' wint out into the street. An' a great crowd of people came aroun' an' began shoutin'. By an' by we wint into anither buildin'.
“'For why sh'd iverybody look at me whin we crossed th' street jest noo?' I asked.
“'Tis y'r clothes,' says he.
“Now, Oi don't enjoy pooblicity, sor; wherefore th' wily Scotch in me told me what to do, an' th' Irish part of me did it. I stood him on his head, an' took his clothes off an' put them on meself. An' then no one noticed me. Thot is, until Oi took me hat off.”
“You mean, that shako?”
“Yis; th' blaemd heavy thing—'tis made o' blue feathers. Well, whin it got so hot it made me scalp sweat, Oi took it off; an' then they called me—'My lord' an' 'your worship,' jest loike Oi were a king.
“'Pray God,' says Oi, 'that me head dinna get bald.'
“Well, sor, Oi had a toime that was fit for th' Irish. Oi did iverything 'cept git drunk; there was nothin' to git drunk with. But afther a while I ran across anither, wit' jest as red hair as I had. He was a foine man, av coorse, an' all surrounded by blue guards. He took me into a room himself an' begin askin' questions.
“An' I lied, sor. Av coorse, 'twas lucky thot Oi had me Scotch larnin' an' caution to guide me; but whin Oi spoke, Oi wisely let th' Irishman do all th' talkin'. An' th' great Bar liked me.