“Do you know any other languages?”
“Yes, sorr: Ould Irish an’ Welsh, an’ a little Gaelic.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes, sorr, all av thim.”
“All but one?”
“An’ what’s that wan, sorr?”
“Can you thari shelta, sublī?”
No tinker was ever yet astonished at anything. If he could be he would not be a tinker. If the coals in his stove were to turn to lumps of gold in a twinkle, he would proceed with leisurely action to rake them out and prepare them for sale, and never indicate by a word or a wink that anything remarkable had occurred. But Owen the tinker looked steadily at me for an instant, as if to see what manner of man I might be, and then said,—
“Shelta, is it? An’ I can talk it. An’ there’s not six min livin’ as can talk it as I do.”
“Do you know, I think it’s very remarkable that you can talk Shelta.”