“You're Hirish, ain't you?” said a very boyish-looking ensign, with sore eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
“Very much so, I fancy,” said he, laughing as though he had been very droll.
“I always heard your countrymen had wings; what has become of them?”
“I believe we used to have, sir; but the English plucked us,” said I, with a look of assumed simplicity.
“And what is all that about the Blarney stone?” said another; “is n't there some story or other about it?”
“It's a stone they kiss in my country, sir, to give us a smooth tongue.”
“I don't see the great use of that,” rejoined he, with a stupid look.
“It's mighty useful at times, sir,” said I, with a half glance towards Captain Pike.
“You're too much, gentlemen, far too much for my poor friend Con,” said the captain; “you forget that he's only a poor Irish lad. Come, now, let us rather think of starting him in the world, with something to keep the devil out of his pocket.” And, with this kind suggestion, he chucked a dollar into his cap, and then commenced a begging tour of the room, which, I am ready to confess, showed the company to be far more generous than they were witty.