“‘Good avenin’, Mother Machree,’ says Oi, touchin’ me hat.

“‘Mother Machree!’ says she, an’ gives me a sharp look.  Also she sniffs.  ‘Ye poor man,’ says she.  ‘Ye’ll catch yer death o’ cold, out here.  Ye better coom in an’ lie on me sofy.’

“Now, sor, how was Oi to ken, bein’ a sailor an’ ingorant?  She was only a ould lady, an’ withered.  How was Oi to ken thot she was th’ ould Witch o’ Endor?”

Watson’s memory was at work on what he knew of the house at Chatterton Place, especially regarding its occupants at the beginning of the Blind Spot mystery.  The Bar’s old remark caught his attention.

“The Witch of Endor?”

“Aye; thot she were.  Whin Oi woke up, there was nary a hoose at all, nor th’ ould lady, nor Toddy Maloney’s, nor ’Frisco.  ’Twas a strange place I was, sor; a church loike St. Peter’s, only bigger, th’ same bein’ harrd to belaive.  An’ th’ columns looked loike waterspoots, an’ th’ sky above was full av clouds, the same bein’ jest aboot ready to break into hell an’ tempest.  But ye’ve been there yerself, sor.

“Well, here was a man beside me, dressed in a kilt.  An’ he spakes a strange language, although Oi could undershtand; and’ he says, says he: 

“‘My lord,’ was what he says.

“‘My lord!’ says Oi.  ‘Oi dinna ken what ye mane at all, at all.’

“‘Are ye not a Bar?’ says he.

“‘Thot Oi am not!’ says Oi, spakin’ good English, so’s to be sure he’d understand.  ‘Oi’m Pat MacPherson.’

“But he couldn’ ken.  Thin we left th’ temple an’ wint out into the street.  An’ a great crowd of people came aroun’ an’ began shoutin’.  By an’ by we wint into anither buildin’.

“‘For why sh’d iverybody look at me whin we crossed th’ street jest noo?’ I asked.

“‘Tis y’r clothes,’ says he.

“Now, Oi don’t enjoy pooblicity, sor; wherefore th’ wily Scotch in me told me what to do, an’ th’ Irish part of me did it.  I stood him on his head, an’ took his clothes off an’ put them on meself.  An’ then no one noticed me.  Thot is, until Oi took me hat off.”

“You mean, that shako?”

“Yis; th’ blaemd heavy thing—­’tis made o’ blue feathers.  Well, whin it got so hot it made me scalp sweat, Oi took it off; an’ then they called me—­’My lord’ an’ ‘your worship,’ jest loike Oi were a king.

“‘Pray God,’ says Oi, ‘that me head dinna get bald.’

“Well, sor, Oi had a toime that was fit for th’ Irish.  Oi did iverything ‘cept git drunk; there was nothin’ to git drunk with.  But afther a while I ran across anither, wit’ jest as red hair as I had.  He was a foine man, av coorse, an’ all surrounded by blue guards.  He took me into a room himself an’ begin askin’ questions.

“An’ I lied, sor.  Av coorse, ’twas lucky thot Oi had me Scotch larnin’ an’ caution to guide me; but whin Oi spoke, Oi wisely let th’ Irishman do all th’ talkin’.  An’ th’ great Bar liked me.