“Peach poy, apricot poy, apple poy, and mince poy.”
“And, shure, what more do you want?”
I have always suspected something mysterious about mince pies. At home, I eat mince pies. I also trust my friends’ cooks. Outside, I pass. I think that mince pies and sausages should be made at home.
“I like a little variety,” I said to the Irishman, “give me a small slice of apple pie, one of apricot pie, and another of peach pie.”
The Irishman stared at me.
“What’s the matter with the mince poy?” he seemed to say.
I could see from his eye that he resented the insult offered to his mince pies.
I ate my pies and returned on the platform. I was told that the train was two hours behind time, and I should be too late to catch the last Brushville train at the next change.
I walked and smoked.