“What’s his name?”
“Barney Shea.”
“What!” cried the much-pleased boy, “is Barney Shea your cousin?”
“Av coorse he is. Me grandfeyther on me mother’s side was an O’Reilly, and Barney’s grandmother on his feyther’s side was a McSpalten, and didn’t they mate one foine summer’s marning, and all the lossies and lods——”
“Oh, hire a stump,” broke in Frank. “Never mind the old folks, but tell me about Barney. How is he?”
“Well and harety.”
“When did you see him last?”
“A month ago, when he said God speed to me on the quay at Dublin. Ah, he’s a great mon in the county now, is me cousin, Barney Shea. Frank Rade is yer name, for mony a toime has he tould me of yer diviltries with the red haythen out in the west.”
“Frank Reade is my name,” said the young inventor. “Is Barney coming back to this country, do you know?”
“Faith, I heerd him talkin’ about the matther, an’ saying that he moight take a pleasure trip to this land.”