Purty soon she says: "Ain't that the dangerous kind o' work, though!" "It is," I says.

And says nothing further.
She sets down and folds her arms, like she was thinking of it, watching my hands closet all the time I was eating, like she's looking fur scars where something slipped when I done that agnostic work.

Purty soon she says: "Me brother Michael was kilt at it in the old country.

He was the most vinturesome lad of thim all!" "Did it fly up and hit him ?" I asts her.

I was wondering w'ether she is making fun of me or am I making fun of her.