breast, an’ with it crept back fresh his ould confidence in his champyion, the King.
But the headless dhriver was talking. “O’Gill,” says the slow woice agin, “did I hear ye say O’Gill, Brian Connors? Surely not one of the O’Gills of Ballinthubber?”
Darby answered rayluctant an’ haughty, for he had a feeling that the monsther was goin’ to claim relaytionship, an’ the idee put a bad taste in his mouth. “All me father’s people came from Ballinthubber,” he says.
“Come this or come that,” says the deep woice, thremblin’ with excitement, “I’ll have one look at ye.” No sooner said than done; for with that sayin’ the coachman thwisted, an’ picking up an extra’onary big head from the sate beside him, hilt it up in his two hands an’ faced it to the road. ’Twas the face of a goint. The lad marked that its wiry red whuskers grew close undher its eyes, an’ the flaming hair of the head curled an’ rowled down to where the chowlders should have been. An’ he saw, too, that the nose was wide an’ that the eyes were little. An uglier face you couldn’t wish to obsarve.
But as he looked, the boy saw the great lips tighten
