Howaniver,
Ned, listen--they all intend to go, you say; now listen, I say--I know
one that won't go; now, do you hear that? You needn't say anything about
it, but this I tell you--listen to me, what's your name? Barney, is it?"
"Why, is it possible, you don't know Ned Gormley?"
"Ay, Ned Gormley--och, so it is. Well listen, Ned--there's one they
won't bring; I can tell you that--the sorra foot I'll go to--to--where's
this you say they're goin' to, Jemmy?"
Gormley shook his head. "Poor Bryan," said he, "it's nearly all over wid
you, at any rate. To America, Bryan," he repeated, in a loud voice.
"Ay, to America. Well, the sorra foot ever I'll go to America--that one
thing I can tell them. I'm goin' in. Oh! never mind," he exclaimed,
on Gormley offering him assistance, "I'm stout enough still; stout an'
active still; as soople as a two-year ould, thank God. Don't I bear up
wonderfully?"
"Well, indeed you do, Bryan; it is wonderful, sure enough."
In a few minutes they arrived at the door; and the old man, recovering
as it were a portion of his former intellect, said, "lavin' this
place--these houses--an' goin' away--far, far away--to a strange
country--to strange people! an' to bring me, the ould white-haired
grandfather, away from all! that would be cruel; but my son Tom will
never do it.
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