"Holy Moses!" he exclaimed, "what a breath; a pint ov that wud make a mule dhrunk!"
"Thry it, Jamie," Anna said, laughing.
"Thry it yerself,—yer a good dale more ov a judge!" he said snappishly.
A wild gust of wind came down the chimney and blew the loose ashes off the hearth. Jamie ensconced himself in his corner—a picture of despair.
"I wondther if Billy O'Hare's in bed?" he said.
"Ye'd need fumigatin' afther smokin' Billy's tobacco, Jamie!"
"I'd smoke tobacco scraped out o' the breeches-pocket ov th' oul divil in hell!" he replied.
He arose, put on his muffler and made ready to visit the sweep. On the way to the door another idea turned him back. He put on the bogman's overcoat and rabbit-skin cap. Anna, divining his intention, said:
"That's th' first sign of sense I've see in you for a month of Sundays."
"Ye cudn't see it in a month ov Easther Sundays, aanyway," he retorted with a superior toss of his head.