His features were swarthy, and his eyes
black; in every lineament of his countenance was a jumble of
savagery and roguishness. I never saw a more genuine wild Irish
face - there he stood looking at me full in the face, his hat in
one hand and his shillealah in the other.
"Well, what do you want?" said I, after we had stared at each other
about half a minute.
"Sure, I'm just come on the part of the boys and myself to beg a
bit of a favour of your reverence."
"Reverence," said I, "what do you mean by styling me reverence?"
"Och sure, because to be styled your reverence is the right of your
reverence."
"Pray what do you take me for?"
"Och sure, we knows your reverence very well."
"Well, who am I?"
"Och, why Father Toban to be sure."
"And who knows me to be Father Toban?"
"Och, a boy here knows your reverence to be Father Toban."
"Where is that boy?"
"Here he stands, your reverence."
"Are you that boy?"
"I am, your reverence."
"And you told the rest that I was Father Toban?"
"I did, your reverence."
"And you know me to be Father Toban?"
"I do, your reverence."
"How do you know me to be Father Toban?"
"Och, why because many's the good time that I have heard your
reverence, Father Toban, say mass."
"And what is it you want me to do?"
"Why, see here, your reverence, we are going to embark in the dirty
steamer yonder for ould Ireland, which starts as soon as the tide
serves, and we want your reverence to bless us before we goes.
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