Ay, and I’ve seen that phisgog many times:
And it always brought ill-luck.

BELL:
It hasn’t served
Its owner so much better: yet it’s my fortune,
Though I’m no peachy milkmaid. Ay: I fancied
’Twas you they meant.

JIM:
Who meant?

BELL:
How should I know?
You should ken best who’s after you, and what
You’re wanted for? They might be friends of yours,
For all I ken: though I’ve never taken, myself,
To the little boy-blues. But, carties, I’d have fancied
’Twould make your lugs burn--such a gillaber about you.
They talked.

JIM:
Who talked?

BELL:
Your friends.

JIM:
Friends? I’ve no friends.