Another said, “Steady now, lads.”
A third said, “I’ve lugged him as far as I care to.”
A fourth said, “We’ll stop when we get to the big tree yonder.”
That happened to be the tree under which Andrew Coffey was sitting. “Better see than be seen,” he thought. Then he swung himself up by a branch and was soon snugly hidden away in the tree.
The rain and wind had ceased and there was light enough for Andrew Coffey to see four men carrying a long box. They brought it under the tree, set it down, and opened it. Then, what should they take out but Patrick Rooney? Never a word did he say, and he was as pale as new-fallen snow.
The men gathered brushwood and soon had a fire burning. Then they stuck two stakes into the ground on each side of the fire, laid a pole across on the tops of them, and on to the pole they slung Patrick Rooney.
“He’s all fixed now,” one said, “but who’s to take care of the fire while we’re away?”
With that Patrick opened his lips. “Andrew Coffey,” he said.
Then the four men, each speaking the name once, called out, “Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey!”
“Gentlemen, I’d be glad to oblige you,” Andrew Coffey said, “but I know nothing about this sort of roasting.”