“It's your nosegays of Mormons we're after having, Ludlow. We seen them shlipping in here!”
“It's shame to you, Ludlow, and your own da-cent wife that hard to come at, by raison of King Strang!”
“Augh! thim bloomers!—they do be makin' me sthummick sick!”
“What hurts you worst,” said Ludlow, “is the price you had to pay the Mormons for fish barrels.”
The mob groaned and hooted. “Wull ye give us out the divil forninst there, or wull ye take a broadside through the windy?”
“I haven't any devil in the house.”
“It's Jim Baker, be the powers. He wor seen, and his women.”
“Jim Baker is here. But he's leaving the island at once with the women.”
“He'll not lave it alive.”
“You, Pat Corrigan,” said Ludlow, pointing his finger at the torch-bearer, “do you remember the morning you and your mate rowed in to the lighthouse half-frozen and starved and I fed and warmed you?”