The rain had stopped and the wind fallen. The night was blacker than ever, but Andrew Coffey could see four men, and they were carrying between them a long box. Under the tree they came, set the box down, opened it, and who should they bring out but—Patrick Rooney. Never a word did he say, and he looked as pale as old snow.
Well, one gathered brushwood, and another took out tinder and flint, and they soon had a big fire roaring, and my grandfather could see Patrick plainly enough. If he had kept still before, he kept stiller now. Soon they had four poles up and a pole across, right over the fire, for all the world like a spit, and on to the pole they slung Patrick Rooney.
"He'll do well enough," said one; "but who's to mind him whilst we're away, who'll turn the fire, who'll see that he doesn't burn?"
With that Patrick opened his lips: "Andrew Coffey!" said he.
"Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey!"
"I'm much obliged to you, gentlemen," said Andrew Coffey, "but indeed I know nothing about the business."
"You'd better come down, Andrew Coffey," said Patrick. It was the second time he spoke, and Andrew Coffey decided he would come down. The four men went off, and he was left all alone with Patrick.
Then he sat and he kept the fire even, and he kept the spit turning, and all the while Patrick looked at him.
Poor Andrew Coffey couldn't make it all out, at all, at all, and he stared at Patrick and at the fire, and he thought of the little house in the wood, till he felt quite dazed.
"Ah, but it's burning me, ye are!" says Patrick, very short and sharp.