“Joe, Joe!” cried he, pulling his son by the collar, “listen to this, acushla. Oh, murther, murther! we're kilt and destroyed intirely!”
“What is it, father?” said a tall, powerfully built man, who spoke in a low but resolute voice; “what ails you?”
“Tell him, darlint, tell him!” said the old man, not able to utter his griefs.
“It seems,” said I, “that you believed yourselves in the States; now, this is not so. This is British America,—Lower Canada.”
“Isn't it 'Quaybec'?” said he, standing full in front of me.
“It is Quebec—, but still, that is Canada.”
“And it's ten thousand miles from Dan!” said the old fellow, whose cries were almost suffocating him.
“Whisht, father, and let me talk,” said the son; “do you know New Orleans?”
“Perfectly.—every street of it,” said I, with an effrontery the darkness aided considerably.
“And how far is't from here?”