“‘Yis, yis,’ he replied, collecting his muddled senses. ‘Yis, sure, you did, an’ gintlemen always swear—two signs yeze a gintleman. Could yeze spare a quarter for a poor divil? By the howly mither, I git narry a cint, bating what sich gintlemen as yeze gives me. I have a big family to ate at home. There’s Bridget’ (counting his fingers by the way of a reminder), ‘she’s sick with the baby; then there’s the twins,—two of thim, as I’m a sinner,—and little lame Mike, what’s got the rackabites, the doctor says—’
“‘Got the what?’ I interrupted.
“‘The rackabites, or some sich dumbed disease,’ he replied, scratching his head.
“‘O, you mean rickets. But how old are the twins, and Mike, and the baby?’
“‘Will, let me see. The baby is tin days, and not christened yit, for we’ve not got the money for Father Prince, and there’s Mike is siven, and Mary is four, and Bridget junior is five.’
“‘And the twins?’ I asked, not a little amused.
“‘Yis, them’s Mary and Bridget junior,—four and five.’
“I interrupted him by a laugh, gave him the desired quarter, and told him to hasten the doctor, which request he proceeded to execute.
“On the heels of retiring Pat the door opened, and the same doctor I had before seen entered.
“‘I want to consult Dr. C.,’ I drawled out.