“Trath did I say it. Wun did escape, an’ ’s livin’ to make mischief in ould Oireland to this very day.”
“Which one was he?”
“Their king.”
“De king. How you call um, Massa Tipprary?”
“The Divvel.”
Chapter Eighty.
Lights Ahead.
The expression of incredulity had now floated from the countenance of the Irishman to that of the African, who in turn suspected himself imposed upon. The leer in Tom’s eye plainly declared that he considered himself “quits” with his companion; and the two remained for some moments without further exchange of speech. When the conversation was resumed, it related to a theme altogether different. It was no longer on the subject of snakes, but stars.