minded me on the ould _Innisfallen_. D'y'
iver know the ould _Innisfallen_, sorr, as sails from Carrk to some
place as I misremember the name on, sorr?"

"Crossed over on her once from Cork to Milford."

"Ye did, yer honour--sorr, I mane? Glory be to God--to think o' that!
Well, sorr, I'd a sup of tay at one on thim shtahls, sorr, an' the
Jock gives me me papers an' puts me aboard, sorr. It's mostly onaisy
in me inside I am, sorr, on the say, but it was beautiful calm
an'----"

"Yes, yes; but look here--Where was it you left your regiment?"

"Is it me, sorr? Me lave me rigimint, sorr? Me wid three years' sarvis
an' sorra intry in my shate at all, only two, wan time I was dthronk
wid a cowld in me nose, sorr. Me lave me rigimint? It was the rigimint
lift me, sorr. As I tell ye just now, we'd bin marchin' an' fightin'
for wakes and wakes, an' it was tired I was, sorr, bate I was, an' we
was havin' a halt, sorr; an' I sez to Mick Shehan from Mallow, as is
in my platoon, 'Mick,' sez I. 'Tim,' sez he, wid his mouth full of
shkoff. 'Mick,' sez I, 'it's gwan to have a shlape, I am,' sez I, 'an'
ye'll wake me, Mick darlint, when the fall-in goes.' 'Begob an' why
wouldn't I, Tim,' sez he, 'so I ain't shlapin' mysilf?' sez he. 'Ye'll
no forgit, Mick,' sez I. 'Agh, shut yer mouth, why would I be the wan
to forgit?' sez he. But whin I wuk up, the divil a rigimint was there
at all, at all, only me, sorr; an' there was a lot of quare-lookin'
chaps as I sinsed by the look on thim was Jarmins. I was concealed by
a ditch,[1] an' settin' down by a bit o' whin, I was, sorr, or they
seen me for sure. 'Phwat'll I do at all?' sez I to mysilf, sez I,
an'--"

[Footnote 1: _Anglice_, bank.]

"Just stop a minute; where was all this?"

"Where was it? Why, in Fraance, sorr, where ilse would it be? Well,
sorr, as I was just startin' to tell ye, there was a lot of
quare-lookin' chaps as I sinsed by the look of thim was Jarmins,
an'----"

"Yes, but good Lord, man, what was the name of the place in France
where all this happened?"

"Place is it, sorr? Sure it wasn't any place at all, but one of thim
kind of places as the name on has shlipped me mimry, a bog,
sorr--leastways it wasn't a bog as ye'd rightly call a bog in
Oireland, sorr--no turf nor there wasn't no wather. I mind now, sorr!
It was what the chaps at the 'Shott calls a 'hathe,' sorr. There was
trees contagious, an' whins; sure wasn't I tellin' ye just now as