“Throo for your honor,” he said at last, in a hesitating way, as if his remark disclosed only half his thought.
“Yes, sirree, I’m sourin’ fast on the hull thing,” The O’Mahony exclaimed. “To do nothin’ all day long but to listen to O’Daly’s yarns, an’ make signs at Malachy, an’ think how long it is between drinks—that ain’t no sort o’ life for a white man. Egad! if there was any fightin’ goin’ on anywhere in the world, darn me if I would not pull up stakes an’ light out for it. Another six months o’ this, an’ my blood’ll all be turned to butter-milk.”
The distant apparition of a sailing-vessel hung upon the outer horizon, the noon sun causing the white squares of canvas to glow like jewels upon the satin sheen of the sea. Jerry stole a swift glance at his companion, and then bent a tong meditative gaze upon the passing vessel, humming softly to himself as he looked. At last he turned to his companion with an air of decision.
“O’Mahony,” he said, using the name thus for the first time, “I’m resolved in me mind to disclose something to ye. It’s a sacret I’m goin’ to tell you.”
He spoke with impressive solemnity, and the other looked up with interest awakened.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Well, sir, your remarks this day, and what I’ve seen wid me own eyes of your demaynor, makes it plane that you’re a frind of Ireland. Now there’s just wan way in the worruld for a frind of Ireland to demonsthrate his affection—and that’s be enrollin’ himsilf among thim that’ll fight for her rights. Sir, I’ll thrust ye wid me sacret. I’m a Fenian.”
The O’Mahony’s attentive face showed no light of comprehension. The word which Jerry had uttered with such mystery conveyed no meaning to him at all at first; then he vaguely recalled it as a sort of slang description of Irishmen in general, akin to “Mick” and “bogtrotter.”
“Well, what of it?” he asked, wonderingly.
Jerry’s quick perception sounded at once the depth of his ignorance.