EASY FOR PADDY.
At a political meeting an Irishman watched closely the trombone player in the band. Presently the man laid down his instrument and went out for a beer. Paddy investigated, and promptly pulled the horn to pieces. The player returned. “Who’s meddled mit my drombone?” he roared. “Oi did,” said Paddy. “Here ye’ve been for two hours tryin’ to pull it apart, an’ Oi did it in wan minute!”
Mike—“What a red nose that Sweeney has.”
“Whist, man; he spint a barrel of money to get it to the pink of perfection.”
It was in the wilds of Tipperary, and the local and long-suffering landlord had been ill-advised enough to ask for a bit of rent on account—the same being some few years overdue. Roused to fury at this unlooked-for and, in their eyes, outrageous demand, Mike and Pat decided to “wait for” the base and greedy tyrant. And they did—behind a hedge with a shot-gun. An hour passed. Their feet and their fingers were numbed with the cold, and, worse than that, the dhrop or half-bottle of the crathur was gone.
Said Pat to Mike, in a hoarse whisper: “Shure, an’ I hope nothing can have happened to the onfortunate gintleman!”