"It's me, sor."
"Well, Pat, what's the matter?"
"Fwat's the matter? Everythin's the matter! I'm goin' to brek every bone av' the boss's body before I say me prayers to the Vargin this blessed noight!"
"Whist! I'll come out to you, Pat."
"Do, sor."
When Alec came out, he said: "Not a word here. Come to the hut, and tell me all about it. What is the matter?" He pulled Pat away by sheer force to the hut, and pushed him into a seat.
"Now what is it?" he said.
Pat told him what had happened, in his rich oily brogue, and with such queer antics and gestures, Alec could not help going off again into a fit of laughter.
"You'll be the death of me, Pat, if you say another word. It's too funny!"
"I'll be the death of ould McLean, the bitter, black, Presbyterian divil's own favourite son. Och! he'll be roasted for this loike a herrin' on a gridiron! Och! the divil will toast him on a pitchfark. He'll be basted an' hauled over the fire till he roars blue murther! Och! the thafe! I shpit upon yees as I would upon Judas who was wan o' the same kidney!"