"Yis, jools," said O'Halloran, "the orjil, ye know, the weeger of battle."
"Oh, yes," said I, as light burst in upon me; "duels, I understand."
"But the chafe subject that I'm engeeged upon is a very different one," he resumed, talking another swallow of the oft-replenished draught. "It's a thraitise of moine which I ixplict to upsit the thaories of the miserable Saxon schaymers that desthort the pleen facts of antiquetee to shoot their own narrow an' disthortid comprayhinsions. An' I till ye what—whin my thraitise is published, it'll make a chumult among thim that'll convulse the litherary wurruld."
"What is your treatise about?" I asked, dreamily, for I only half comprehended him, or rather, I didn't comprehend him at all.
"Oh," said he, "its a foine subject intoirely. It's a thraitise rilitiv' to the Aydipodayan Ipopaya."
"What's that?" I asked. "The what?—"
"The Aydipodayan Ipopaya," said O'Halloran.
"The Aydipodayan Ipopaya?" I repeated, in a misty, foggy, and utterly woe-be-gone manner.
"Tis," said he, "an' I'd like to have your opinion about that same," saying which, he once more filled his oft-replenished tumbler.
It was too much. The conversation was getting beyond my depth. I had followed him in a vague and misty way thus far, but this Aydipodayan Ipopaya was an obstacle which I could not in any way surmount. I halted short, full in front of that insurmountable obstacle. So far from surmounting it, I couldn't even pretend to have the smallest idea what it was. I could not get over it, and therefore began to think of a general retreat.