My blood boiled. “She was not drunk!” said I. “And she’s—she’s a great friend of mine.”
“Whisht! whisht, man! We’ll be heard. I ask your pardon, I’m sure.”
I made no reply. The Scotchman’s tone was unpleasantly dry. Besides it was very difficult to give vent to one’s just indignation in whispers, and I still felt giddy, though I was resting my back against some of the lumber, rather comfortably.
“You’ll no be Eirish, yourself?” the Scotchman asked in his own accent, which was as strong in its way as Biddy’s.
“I’m English,” I said.
“Just so. And edyucated, I dare say?”
“I suppose so.”
“Ye’ve not forgiven me that I wronged the old lady? Indeed, but I ask your pardon, and hers no less. It’s not for the best of us to sit in judgment on the erring, as my mother has often said to me, unless it comes in the plain path of duty. But maybe your own temper would be a bit soored if your head was as light and your heart as sick as mine with starvation and hope deferred ——”
“Are you hungry?” I interrupted.
“I’ll not be sorry when we get a meal.”