“Do yez mane a rale horse, squire?”
“Musha, my Lord, are ye joking, squire?”
“Be the goat of St. Kevin’s cavern that’s the bate of all.”
And they held up their hands in the greatest wonder.
“I mane it,” said Barney. “It’s a harse, and av coorse it must be constructed of iron or sthale.”
“An’ goes be sthame?”
“It will that same,” said Barney. “Oh, I must go to Ameriky to take a jaunt at this wondherful Sthame Harse. Look ye, Michael McGarrahan.”
“Yis, Squire Shea,” said a young man, stepping forward with his hat between his fingers.
“I moind that ye’re a loikely soort o’ lad, Michael.”
“Yis, squire; thank ye, squire.”