“You may say that,” replied he, “if you knew who you were talking to; although, maybe, you’ve heard enough of me, though you never saw me till now.”
“Without having that pleasure even yet,” said I, “it would grieve me to think you should be ill in the coach.”
“Maybe it might. Did ye ever hear tell of Barney Doyle?” said he.
“Not to my recollection.”
“Then I’m Barney,” said he, “that’s in all the newspapers in the metropolis. I’m seventeen weeks in Jervis Street Hospital, and four in the Lunatic, and the sorra bit better, after all. You must be a stranger, I’m thinking, or you’d know me now.”
“Why, I do confess I’ve only been a few hours in Ireland for the last six months.”
“Aye, that’s the reason; I knew you would not be fond of travelling with me if you knew who it was.”
“Why, really, I did not anticipate the pleasure of meeting you.”
“It’s pleasure ye call it; then there’s no accountin’ for tastes, as Dr. Colles said, when he saw me bite Cusack Rooney’s thumb off.”
“Bite a man’s thumb off!”