CHAPTER XV
AS we ambled our way agreeably out of Bath, Paddy and I employed ourselves in worthy speech. He was not yet a notable horseman, but his Irish adaptability was so great that he was already able to think he would not fall off so long as the horse was old and tired.
"Paddy," said I, "how would you like to be an Englishman? Look at their cities. Sure, Skibbereen is a mud-pond to them. It might be fine to be an Englishman."
"I would not, your honour," said Paddy. "I would not be an Englishman while these grand But never mind; 't is many proud things I will say about the English considering they are our neighbours in one way; I mean they are near enough to come over and harm us when they wish. But any how they are a remarkable hard-headed lot, and in time they may come to something good."
"And is a hard head such a qualification?" said I.
Paddy became academic. "I have been knowing two kinds of hard heads," he said. Mickey McGovern had such a hard skull on him no stick in the south of Ireland could crack it, though many were tried. And what happened to him? He died poor as a rat. 'T is not the kind of hard head I am meaning. I am meaning the kind of hard head which believes it contains all
