“‘Faith, no wan would think of it anny other way,’ I says, catchin’ up with him and smellin’ his breath, but it was Prohibition. ‘Where do ye see thim eyes?’ I asks him, bein’ sure he was crazy now.
“‘Why, up there,’ says he, pointin’ straight up in the air.
“‘Niver mind, niver mind,’ I says, soothin’, and fearin’ he would be took worse. ‘They won’t hurt ye anny.’
“‘Hurt me?’ says he.
“‘Not a bit,’ says I. ‘We’ll be turnin’ to the right here,’ I says.
“‘But what I meant by thim eyes—’ says he.
“‘Don’t think about thim anny more,’ I says. ‘It ain’t good for ye.’
“He stopped and turned round, laughin’, the silly fool, though it was no time for it. ‘Ye think I’m crazy, don’t ye, me frind?’ he says.
“‘Me?’ says I.
“‘No, me,’ says he, cheerful. ‘I was just playin’ a joke on ye,’ he says. ‘The Irish likes thim, don’t they?’