“Do you know,” he said, “I couldn’t sleep last night. Lay awake for hours and hours after writing that. I was thinkin’....”
“That’s bad,” I sympathized. “Did it hurt much?”
He took me by the shoulders, turned my face to the light and stood looking at me quizzingly for some time. His eyes were dancing with mischief.
“Tell me,” he said at last. “Honest now! Are you by any chance an Irishman in disguise?”
“No,” I laughed, “I am not.”
“Any Irish blood in ye?”
“Not a drop, Doc. dear.”
He ruffled his hair, plunged his hands deep in his pockets, and began walking up and down with a short quick step.
“Then I can’t understand it,” he cried. “If you were an Irishman I’d know where I was, but you say you’re not.”
“Is it my nose that’s botherin’ you, Doc. dear?” I chaffed.