“Yes, father,” was on my lips, when the Irish leader turned upon me sharply with:
“Oh, ye’re Val—are ye?”
“Yes,” I said, rather sharply, for the man’s aggressive manner nettled me; “my name is Valentine.”
“And is it, now?” he said, with a mocking laugh. “Ye’re a penny plain and tuppence coloured, I suppose? Coloured, bedad! Look at his face!”
“I don’t see the joke,” I said sharply.
“Don’t ye, now? Then ye soon will, my fine chap. Let’s see, now; how old are ye?”
I made no reply, and my father replied gravely:
“My son is eighteen.”
“Is he, now? And ye’re forty, I suppose?”
“I am sorry to say I am over fifty,” replied my father, as I stood chafing at the man’s insolent, bullying tone.