The nearest person, as it happens, is the easily flustered one, who turns very slowly toward the unmistakable voice which appears, against all odds, to be addressing him. Martin looks at the leprechaun, which involves looking a great deal more up than he could have anticipated, and the expression of mingled disbelief and disapproval slips almost immediately from his face. Christ he's big; Martin knew he was big, but he was never standing on their first encounter, and now Martin, who is already shorter than most men, finds himself absolutely dwarfed by what must be seven entire feet of loud, muscular Irishman.

"Oh," he blurts stupidly; the actual content of what Sweeney has just said escapes him utterly. His height and unexpected proximity have all but activated Martin's flight reflex, but he manages to stay put, clutching his own drink a bit tighter than before. "It's you," he adds, disapproval making an absurd resurgence in the absence of anything else.