“Shame on you, Terence Reardon!” he declared. “And you with a Masonic ring on your finger.”
“Glory be!” cried the delighted Terence. “Sure are you wan av us?”
“One of you!” Mike Murphy fairly shrieked. “The minute I'm out of this room you'll apologize or fight for thinking I'm a renegade.”
“Naboclish!” laughed Terence Reardon, slipping into the Gaelic and out again. “The divil a Mason am I! Sure that ring ye saw on me finger that day in the office av the owners belonged to me second assistant in the Arab. He'd lost it in the engine room, an' a mont' afther he'd left I found it. Not knowin' what ship he was in, 'twas me intintion to take the ring over to the Marine Engineers' Association an' lave it for him wit' the secreth'ry; and to make sure I wouldn't forget it I put it on me finger—”
“Well, you knew, Terence, that with the likes of me round you'd not be liable to forget it,” Mike Murphy laughed.
“As for you, ye divil,” Terence continued, “faith, what wit' yer English tweeds an' the fancy cut av thim, an' yer lack av the brogue an' the broad a av ye, I thought, begorra, ye were a dirrty Far Down! God love ye, Michael, but 'tis the likes av you I'm proud to be ship-mates wit'.”
“But you said you were from Belfast, Terence.”
“So I am. I was borrn there, but me parents—the Lord 'a' merrcy on their sowls—moved back to Kerry.”
“Terence!”
“What is it, Michael, me poor lad?”