once that surprised me very much, respecting the ignorance of the
French."

"Indeed!" rejoined the baronet; "really, I always supposed the
French to be a most accomplished people."

"Throth, then, they're not, sir," interrupts Pat.

"Oh, by no means," adds mine host, shaking his head emphatically.

"I believe, Pat, 'twas when you were crossing the Atlantic?" says
the master, turning to Pat with a seductive air, and leading into
the "full and true account" (for Pat had thought fit to visit
North Amerikay, for "a raison he had," in the autumn of the year
ninety-eight).

"Yes, sir," says Pat, "the broad Atlantic"--a favourite phrase of
his, which he gave with a brogue as broad, almost, as the Atlantic
itself.

"It was the time I was lost in crassin' the broad Atlantic, a-comin'
home," began Pat, decoyed into the recital; "whin the winds began
to blow, and the saw to rowl, that you'd think the Colleen Dhas
(that was her name) would not have a mast left but what would rowl
out of her.

"Well, sure enough, the masts went by the hoard, at last, and the
pumps were choked (divil choke them for that same), and av coorse
the wather gained an us; and, throth, to be filled with wather is
neither good for man or baste; and she was sinkin' fast, settlin'