lashin’s av them off the Irish coast,’ sez the tramp.
“ ‘Aah! go shake yerself,’ sez Counahan. ‘Fwhat have I to do wid the Irish coast?’
“ ‘Then fwhat are ye doin’ here?’ sez the tramp.
“ ‘Sufferin’ Christianity!’ sez Counahan (he always said that whin his pumps sucked an’ he was not feelin’ good)—‘Sufferin’ Christianity!’ he sez, ‘where am I at?’
“ ‘Thirty-five mile west-sou’west o’ Cape Clear,’ sez the tramp, ‘if that’s any consolation to you.’
“Counahan fetched wan jump, four feet sivin inches, measured by the cook.
“ ‘Consolation!’ sez he, bould as brass. ‘D’ye take me fer a dialect? Thirty-five mile from Cape Clear, an’ fourteen days from Boston Light. Sufferin’ Christianity, ’tis a record, an’ by the same token I’ve a mother to Skibbereen!’ Think av ut! The gall av um! But ye see he could niver keep things sep’rate.