“An’ don’t ee kalkerlate they’d a looked more like oats, ef they’d been pointed at both ends instead o’ one!”
“In troth, would they—all that same.”
“We-ell, thet’s the very idee thet kem inter my mind at the time.”
“Arrah now, is it? An’ fwhat did yez do wid the pegs then?”
“Jest sharpened the other eends o’ ’em, an’ sold ’em for oats!”
The puzzled, half-incredulous stare, on the countenance of the Hibernian, was ridiculous in the extreme. The allegation of the Yankee had deprived him of speech; and for some moments he sat gazing at the latter, evidently in doubt whether to give credence to the story, or reject it as a little bit of a “sell” upon the part of his comrade—with whose eccentricity of character he was well acquainted. Equally ludicrous was the look of gravity on the countenance of the other—which he continued to preserve under the continued gaze of his comrade, with all the solemnity of a judge upon the bench. It was as much as my companion and I could do to restrain our laughter; but we were desirous of witnessing the finale of the affair, and, by an effort, succeeded in holding in.
“Och, now, Misther Shure-shat!” gasped the Irishman at length, “an’ it’s only jokin’ ye are?”
“Truth I tell ye, Petrick—every word o’ ’t. Ye see the oats weer jest then sellin’ at fifty cents the bushel, an’ thet paid us. We made a lettle suthin’, too, by the speekolashun.”
“But how did yez get the other inds pointed at all—at all?”
“Oh! thet weer eezy enough. I invented a machine for thet, an’ run ’em through in less’n no time. When they kim out at t’other eend o’ the machine, I kednt meself a told ’em from oats!”