“Do I know my own mother? Ah, your honour, it’s just as though your honour asked did I know the Colonel. Your honour! blessed be the saints, and a foine gentleman he is! Every time he sees me, your honour, he offers me a dhrink.”
“And how much do you want for the drive?”
“How far did your honour say it was from here to Ballinacourty?”
“A mile. I saw it on the map.”
“A mile!”
The idea that it was only a mile from Castle Connell to Ballinacourty seemed so droll to him that he called the waiter, laughing heartily as he did so.
“Hear this, Tim?” said he. “Here his honour says that to go to the Colonel’s it is only a mile!”
Tim also found this idea so ridiculous that he laughed till his old coat threatened to split, but feeling his dignity compromised by this burst of hilarity, he wiped his face with a dirty napkin and politely apologised:
“Beg your pardon, sir!” said he, “but, holy Mother of God, there are at least four miles, and the road is very bad.”
“No, Tim, no,” replied the driver with a noble air, “the road has been mended, and it is not four miles; it is a little over three; but there, we will only say three. You know this gentleman is going to the Colonel’s, a man who never forgets to offer a dhrink, does he, Tim?”