“Yes, but when will you give it to me?” she replied.
“To-morrow,” said I, “as soon as I go on board. But mind, there is one condition.” And I said in Gaelic: “Feumieth thu pog thoir dhomh eur a shon (you must give me a kiss for it).”
“Oh,” said she, lookin’ not over pleased, I consaited; but perhaps it was because the other girls laughed liked anything, as if it was a capital joke, “that’s not fair, you said you would give it, and now you want to sell it. If that’s the case I will pay the money for it.”
“Oh, fie,” sais I, “Miss Jessie.”
“Well, I want to know!”
“No, indeed; what I meant was to give you that book to remember me by when I am far away from here, and I wanted you to give me a little token, O do bhilean boidheach (from your pretty lips), that I should remember the longest day I live.”
“You mean that you would go away, laugh, and forget right off. No, that won’t do, but if you must have a token I will look up some little keepsake to exchange for it. Oh, dear, what a horrid idea,” she said, quite scorney like, “to trade for a kiss; it’s the way father buys his fish, he gives salt for them, or flour, or some such barter, oh, Mr Slick, I don’t think much of you. But for goodness gracious sake how did you learn Gaelic?”
“From lips, dear,” said I, “and that’s the reason I shall never forget it.”
“No, no,” said she, “but how on earth did you ever pick it up.”
“I didn’t pick it up, Miss,” said I, “I kissed it up, and as you want a story I might as well tell you that as any other.”