"
"Huh! Well, it's little the loikes o' ye iver railly knows about
names, Oi 'm thinkin'. They tell me ye don't have no proper, dacent
names of yer own over in Sweden,--wherever the divil that is, I
dunno,--but jist picks up annything handy for to dhraw pay on."
"It ban't true."
"It's a loiar ye are! Bad cess to ye, ain't Oi had to be bunk-mate wid
some o' ye dhirty foreigners afore now? Ye 're _sons_, the whole kit
and caboodle o' ye--Nelsons, an' Olesons, an' Swansons, an' Andersons.
Blissed Mary! an' ye call them things names? If ye have anny other
cognomen, it's somethin' ye stole from some Christian all unbeknownst
to him. Holy Mother! but ye ought to be 'shamed to be a Swade, ye
miserable, slab-sided haythen."
"My name ban Swanson; it ban all right, hey?"
"Swanson! Swanson! Oh, ye poor benighted, ignorant foreigner!" and
Mike straightened up, slapping his chest proudly. "Jist ye look at me,
now! Oi'm an O'Brien, do ye moind that? An O'Brien! Mother o' God!
we was O'Briens whin the Ark first landed; we was O'Briens whin yer
ancestors--if iver ye had anny--was wigglin' pollywogs pokin' in the
mud.
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