“I ran away because of several things,” said I.
“I always did want to see the world”—(“And why wouldn’t ye?” my new friend hastily interpolated). “But even if I had stayed at home I don’t believe I should ever have got to like being a lawyer”—(“Small chance of it, I should say, the quill-driving thievery!”) “It was my uncle’s office”—(“I ask his pardon and yours.”) “Oh, you may say what you like. I never could get on with him. I don’t mean that he was cruel to me in the least, though I think he behaved shabbily ——”
“Faith, it’s a way they have! I’ve an uncle myself that’s a sort of first cousin of my father’s, and six foot three in his stockings, without a drop of good-nature in the full length of him.”
“Where is your home?” said I, for it certainly was my turn to ask questions.
“Where would it be but ould Ireland?” And after a moment’s pause he added, “They call me Dennis O’Moore. What’s your name, ye enterprising little stowaway?”
I told him. “And where were you going in your boat, and how did you get upset?” I asked.
He sighed. “It was the old hooker we started in, bad luck to her!”
“Is that the name of the boat you were holding on to?”
“That boat? No! We borrowed her—and now
ye remind me, I wouldn’t be surprised if Tim Brady was missing her by this, for I had no leisure to ask his leave at the time, and, as a rule, we take our own coracle in the hooker—”