“Oh! stop, stop, Davy; I’ll come down,” cried Kittie; while Fred strikes up “Annie Rooney” at the top of his voice. It was afternoon when they drove down into a pretty valley where were clustered three or four large white tents.
“What’s this—a circus?” shouted Tom.
“It’s Larry Matthews’ hotel,” replied the driver.
Out came Larry himself, as the teams drew up with a flourish, before the door of the principal tent.
“Glad to see yez, ladies an’ gintlemen!” he cried, with broad, rich brogue. “Step right into me parlor, but be careful of the carpet, av ye plase!”
As the tent knew no floor but turf, this raised a laugh, and this was followed by another and another at Larry’s quaint observations, which he showered without stint on his guests.
When they were all seated at long tables, he was everywhere at once.
“Milk, sor? Milk it is. Eggs? there’s wan the little speckled hin laid for you, mem! Coffee? Do take another cup! There’s plenty more to be had—the geyser’s playin’ right along.”
The meal was eaten in a gale of merriment, and all hands declared that sandwiches, boiled eggs and coffee—for of these viands it largely consisted—had never tasted so good.