it I could niver kape it. I niver
could onderstan' why, but so it was. Nivertheless I managed to live
well enough in the ould cabin wid the murphies--"

"Vat is murphies?" inquired La Roche.

"Bliss yer innocent face, don't ye know it's praties?"

"'Tis vat?"

"Praties, boy, or pit-taties, if I must be partic'lar."

"Ah! goot, goot, I understan'--pettitoes. Oui, oui, ye call him _pomme
de terre_."

"Hum! well, as I was sayin', I got on pretty well wid the pumdeterres
an' the pig, but the pig died wan day--choked hisself on a murphy--that
is, a pumbleterre; an' more betoken, it was the last murphy in the
house, a powerful big wan that my grandmother had put by for supper.
After this ivery thin' wint to smithereens. The rot came, and I thought
I should have to list for a sodger. Well, Bob Mahone died o' dhrink and
starvation, an' we had a beautiful wake; but there was a rig'lar shindy
got up, an' two or three o' the county p'lice misbehaved themselves, so
I jist floored them all, wan after the other, an' bolted. Well, I wint
straight to Dublin, an' there I met wid an ould friend who was the
skipper o' a ship bound for New York. Says he, `Bryan, will ye go?'
Says I, `Av coorse; 'an 'shure enough I wint, an' got over the say to
'Meriky.' But I could niver settle down, so, wan way or another, I came
at last to Montreal and jined the Company; an' afther knockin' about in
the Columbia and Mackenzie's River for some years, I was sint to Moose,
an' here I am, Losh, yer sarvant to command."

"Goot, ver' goot, mais peculiaire," said La Roche, whose intimacy with
this son of Erin had enabled him to comprehend enough of his jargon to
grasp the general scope of his discourse.

"Av ye mane that lavin' the ould country was _goot_," said Bryan,
stooping to pick up a stone and skim it along the smooth surface of the
sea, "p'raps ye're right; but there's wan thing I niver could make my
mind aisy about," and the blacksmith's voice became deep and his face
grave as he recalled these bygone days.

"Vat were dat?" inquired La Roche.

"Why, ye see, Losh, I was so hard druve by the p'lice that I was forced
to lave wid-out sayin' good day to my ould mother, an' they tould me it
almost broke her heart; but I've had wan or two screeds from the priest
wid her cross at them since, and she's got over it, an' lookin' out for
my returnin'--bliss her sowl!--an' I've sint her five pounds ivery year
since I left: so ye see, Losh, I've