“I am not fit to get into anything better than a pigstye or a donkey-cart,” I said apologetically. “I really am ashamed of myself from every point of view, moral and physical.”
“But what on earth have you been doing?” he asked, as we turned and drove towards Durrus. “Have you been out snipe-shooting in the bog with Willy?”
“No,” I answered cheerfully; “something much more vulgar.”
“It certainly does look more as if you and he had been digging potatoes, but I did not quite like to suggest that.”
Something in his manner offended me.
“That was just it,” I said, not choosing to explain. “Willy is rather short of farm hands just now, and I have had my first lesson in ‘sticking’ potatoes.”
“I should think you will find that a useful accomplishment in Boston.”
“Knowledge is power,” I said combatively. “Probably the next time you see me, I shall be learning to sell pigs in the fair at Moycullen.”
“Very likely. I believe Americans—I beg your pardon, I mean people from America—like to do a country thoroughly when they get there. I suppose you go in for experiments as much as the others?”
“Why, certainly! I guess that’s why I came over here; I’m experimentalizing all the time.”