“Am I sure?” Sweeney was incredulous. He was used to people doubting what he was when they found out, but that generally came after being told what he was. He was unaccustomed to people coming to the right conclusion and then doubting both themselves and Sweeney. “Am I sure?“ He chuckled, “Man, you came to the conclusion.”
It was rather bothersome to have the Englishman continually insult things that were important to him: his heritage, his country, his favorite beverage and himself.
Sweeney chuckled again and flicked some ash off the end of his cigarette into an ashtray the bartender slid in front of him. “Ain’t that the shit, though. We aren’t like those little bastards that ran around the City. Ain’t like those little men in their top hats and little green suits with short trousers and buckle shoes.”
He took a drag off his cigarette, then brought his drink to his mouth with his other hand. Alcohol and cigarettes were made to go together. They were meant for each other. “Calling us the ‘wee folk’ is meant to be ironic.”