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Didn't you tell me the Gineral said there couldn't no woman come up to him?" "I did, mother." "I call that pretty foine. Beatin' the women at their own work. There was only wan man in the mess that could do it, you said?" "Yes, mother," smiled Mike. "I thought so. 'Tain't often you foind a rale handy man loike that. And he was the best foighter they had, too?" "Yes, mother."
"But there's wan thing Jim's got that no other wan of my b'ys has," she continued. Jim pricked up his ears. "He's the born foighter, is Jim. If he was big now, and there was a war to come, he'd be a soldier, I'm thinkin'. He's for foightin' iverything, even the words of a body's mouth." This praise might be equivocal, but little Jim did not so understand it, and his pride returned.
Big and straight he walks, a-wearin' his plug hat, and old and young is plazed to meet him. Well, his business is done. There's no more foightin'. But he was a brave foighter! My Tim saw him at it more'n wanst. Tim was a long way behind the Gineral, but Tim, he done his duty, too. Sure some has to be behoind, and if that's your place, 'Make that place respicted, says I."
If it's help ye nade, I guess we might be able to scrape up a shooter apiece. We lug 'em along for ballast, ye understand, in the absence o' fire-water. If it's a foighter ye're talking like, ivery devil of a mother's son of us can make a bang like a gun, with a bullet t'rowed in though for meself I prefer a shillalah. I'm going to be in this foight if I have to use a lead pencil. Ain't I Oirish?"
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