Pat. Whose wife is she?
Den. Yours, worse luck; but she’s my sister.
Pat. Shure, it wasn’t her fault, poor thing. Perhaps yer would be plased to have me buy her a pianny an’ get her a velocipede to amuse herself wid while I’m at work?
Den. You’re drunk, Patrick, and yer can’t see me argyment.
Brid. That’s thrue.
Pat. Will ye be still, Bridget? I’m drunk, am I, Mister Hallorahan? Av coorse I am; it’s elated wid joy that I am, because of the war in Europe. It’s agoin’ to mend the times in this country, an’ we’ll all git paid for being gentlemen, every man of us. Oh, I have the head for a senator.
Brid. You’re looney, Pat.
Pat. Missus Grady, if ye don’t shut up I’ll be forced to be on the lookout fur another wife, on account av yer suddent death.
Brid. Patrick, your cruel words will drive me wild with grief.
Pat. Thin we’ll send ye to play Hamlet.