Frenchman (staring at him). Comment!
Patrick. Indade it's thrue for you. I'm tathered to paces, and God knows I look quare enough; but it's by rason of the storm that dhruve us ashore jist here, and we're all starvin'.
Frenchman. Je m'y t—(pronounced zhe meet).
Patrick. Oh! not at all! by no manes! we have plenty of mate ourselves, and we'll dhress it, if you be plased jist to lind us the loan of a gridiron, sir. (Making a low bow.)
Frenchman (staring at him, but not understanding a word.)
Patrick. I beg pardon, sir; but maybe I'm undher a mistake, but I thought I was in France, sir. An't you all furriners here? Parley voo frongsay?
Frenchman. Oui, monsieur.
Patrick. Then, would you lind me the loan of a gridiron, if you plase? (The Frenchman stares more than ever, as if anxious to understand.) I know it's a liberty I take, sir; but it's only in the regard of bein' cast away; and if you plase, sir, parley voo frongsay?
Frenchman. Oui, monsieur, oui.
Patrick. Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron, sir and you'll obleege me?