“Yes, Pietro lives there. The padrone is his uncle, and treats him better than the rest of us. He sent him after me to bring me back.”
“And what is your name? Is it Peter, like his?”
“No; my name is Filippo.”
“It’s a quare name.”
“American boys call me Phil.”
“That’s better. It’s a Christian name, and the other isn’t. Before I married my man I lived five years at Mrs. Robertson’s, and she had a boy they called Phil. His whole name was Philip.”
“That’s my name in English.”
“Then why don’t you call it so, instead of Philip-O? What good is the O, anyhow? In my country they put the O before the name, instead of to the tail-end of it. My mother was an O’Connor. But it’s likely ivery country has its own ways.”
Phil knew very little of Ireland, and did not fully understand Mrs. McGuire’s philosophical remarks. Otherwise they might have amused him, as they may possibly amuse my readers.
I cannot undertake to chronicle the conversation that took place between Phil and his hostess. She made numerous inquiries, to some of which he was able to give satisfactory replies, to others not. But in half an hour there was an interruption, and a noisy one. Three stout, freckled-faced children ran in at the back door, dripping as if they had just emerged from a shower-bath. Phil moved aside to let them approach the stove.