It was the second time he spoke, and Andrew Coffey decided he would come down. The four men went off and he was left all alone with Patrick.
Then he sat and he kept the fire even, and he kept the spit turning, and all the while Patrick looked at him.
Poor Andrew Coffey couldn't make it all out at all, at all, and he stared at Patrick and at the fire, and he thought of the little house in the wood, till he felt quite dazed.
"Ah, but it's burning me ye are!" says Patrick, very short and sharp.
"I'm sure I beg your pardon," said my grandfather, "but might I ask you a question?"
"If you want a crooked answer," said Patrick; "turn away or it'll be the worse for you."
But my grandfather couldn't get it out of his head; hadn't everybody, far and near, said Patrick had fallen overboard. There was enough to think about, and my grandfather did think.
"Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! it's burning me ye are."
Sorry enough my grandfather was, and he vowed he wouldn't do so again.
"You'd better not," said Patrick, and he gave him a cock of his eye, and a grin of his teeth, that just sent a shiver down Andrew Coffey's back. Well it was odd, that here he should be in a thick wood he had never set eyes upon, turning Patrick Rooney upon a spit. You can't wonder at my grandfather thinking and thinking and not minding the fire.
"Andrew Coffey, Andrew Coffey, it's the death of you I'll be."
