“‘Faith, Father,’ says I, ‘’tis nought but a couple o’ black streaks with another streak crossin’ them same.’ ‘’Tis A!’ says the father, says he. But—”
The narrator paused, groaned, and moved uneasily, as if the memory were painful. Or—was it the saddle?
“Well, and what then? What next? Dennis, when my Miguel is telling a story he never stops right in the most interesting part. Never.”
“Yes, me dear. I know, I know. But, little lady, that there ‘Greaser’ never went to school in Connemara!”
“You did! But you’ll never get away from that school nor tell me what you learned at it, if you don’t hurry. Now—what next?”
The ex-trackman scratched his head.
“Hmm. The next thing was a crack on me pate! an’ that is the sum an’ the substance of all me book learnin’, avick!”
“Why, Dennis! Did you give up your education for such a trifle as that?”
“‘Trifle,’ says the little colleen! ’Twas no trifle, at all, at all, to get hit with the father’s shillalah; an’ the smart o’ the blow—belike, I’m feelin’ it yet!”
He rubbed his hard head with such a comical grimace that Carlota laughed aloud.