Brid. Shure, it’s good.
Ber. Good for pavin the streets. If the Czar of Rushia had had cannon balls as hard as that bread, he’d a licked the bloody Turks long ago.
Brid. Thin I’ll throw it away.
Ber. No, yez won’t. Save it, and I’ll kill a cat wid it. Pass me the butter.
Mary. The butter’s strong enough to walk to ye.
Ber. No criticisms, young leddy; if the butter’s good enough for yer ancistor, it is good enough for yez. What are ye all dressed up fur to-night?
Mary. I’m going to a ball.
Ber. What ball?
Mary. The Hoolihan’s masquerade ball.
Ber. Yez ain’t. Divil a one of the Hoolihan’s marquerade have got money enough to buy their own chewin’ tobacco.