after his drenching. But all the while he was wondering and wondering.
"Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey!"
Good heavens! who was calling him, and not a soul in sight? Look around as he might, indoors and out, he could find no creature with two legs or four, for his horse was gone.
"Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! tell me a story."
It was louder this time, and it was nearer. And then what a thing to ask for! It was bad enough not to be let sit by the fire and dry oneself, without being bothered for a story.
"Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! Tell me a story, or it'll be the worse for you."
My poor grandfather was so dumbfounded that he could only stand and stare.
"ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY! I told you it'd be the worse for you."
And with that, out there bounced, from a cupboard that Andrew Coffey had never noticed before, a man. And the man was in a towering rage. But it wasn't that. And he carried as fine a blackthorn as you'd wish to crack a man's head with. But it wasn't that either. But when my grandfather clapped eyes on him, he knew him for Patrick Rooney, and all the world knew he'd gone overboard, fishing one night long years before.
Andrew Coffey would neither stop nor stay, but he took to his heels and was out of the house as hard as he could. He ran and he ran taking little thought of what was before till at last he ran up against a big tree. And then he sat down to rest.
