“It is not your nose,” he said emphatically, “an’ well you know it! It’s this preposterous trial. If you were an Irishman, I’d know you’d planned the whole thing for a bit of devilment.”
“Mercy me!” I exclaimed. “What makes you say that?”
“I’ll tell you,” he said, pushing me into a chair. “Sit down there where I can watch your face, an’ I’ll tell you. How long have I known you, Bones?”
“Nearly two years,” I said.
“An’ how well do I know you?”
“Don’t know,” I replied. “You tell me.”
“I will. I know you as well as this! I’ll eat my boots if you are a souper.”
“Souper?”
“If you were an Irishman, you’d know what that means. It’s a fellow who changes his religion to keep his lands.”
“But I haven’t changed my religion, Doc.”