hod-carrier? Ballymena might do, but it sounds much like a lady, my boy.
Ay, boy you are. 'Tis an idea. Boy! Let's see. Banshee Boy? Rotten.
Lad of Erin!"

He nodded approbation and reached for the second bottle. He drank and
meditated, and drank again.

"I've got you," he announced solemnly. "Killeny is a lovely name, and
it's Killeny Boy for you. How's that strike your honourableness?--high-
soundin', dignified as a earl or . . . or a retired brewer. Many's the
one of that gentry I've helped to retire in my day."

He finished his bottle, caught Michael suddenly by both jowls, and,
leaning forward, rubbed noses with him. As suddenly released, with
thumping tail and dancing eyes, Michael gazed up into the god's face. A
definite soul, or entity, or spirit-thing glimmered behind his dog's
eyes, already fond with affection for this hair-grizzled god who talked
with him he knew not what, but whose very talking carried delicious and
unguessable messages to his heart.

"Hey! Kwaque, you!"

Kwaque, squatted on the floor, his hams on his heels, paused from the
rough-polishing of a shell comb designed and cut out by his master, and
looked up, eager to receive command and serve.

"Kwaque, you fella this time now savvee name stop along this fella dog.
His name belong 'm him, Killeny Boy. You make 'm name stop 'm inside
head belong you. All the time you speak 'm this fella dog, you speak 'm
Killeny Boy. Savvee? Suppose 'm you no savvee, I knock 'm block off