May th' saints save me fr'm another!
I come over in th' bowels iv a big crazy balloon iv a propeller, like
wan iv thim ye see hooked up to Dempsey's dock, loaded with lumber an'
slabs an' Swedes. We watched th' little ol' island fadin' away behind
us, with th' sun sthrikin' th' white house-tops iv Queenstown an'
lightin' up th' chimbleys iv Martin Hogan's liquor store. Not wan iv
us but had left near all we loved behind, an' sare a chance that we'd
iver spoon th' stirabout out iv th' pot above th' ol' peat fire again.
Yes, by dad, there was wan,--a lad fr'm th' County Roscommon. Divvle
th' tear he shed. But, whin we had parted fr'm land, he turns to me,
an' says, 'Well, we're on our way,' he says. 'We are that,' says I.
'No chanst f'r thim to turn around an' go back,' he says. 'Divvle th'
fut,' says I. 'Thin,' he says, raisin' his voice, 'to 'ell with th'
Prince iv Wales,' he says. 'To 'ell with him,' he says.
"An' that was th' last we see of sky or sun f'r six days. That night
come up th' divvle's own storm. Th' waves tore an' walloped th' ol'
boat, an' th' wind howled, an' ye cud hear th' machinery snortin'
beyant.
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