"Sure it's in dialect," said the priest with a smile, and his own brogue.
"Never mind. Go ahead. 'Tis a dreary day."
The paper was the Dublin Independent, and in a moment more I was listening to the familiar humor of the funniest man in America, and that in a monastery, of all places.
"'This here pa-aper says,' said Mr. Hennessy, 'that they're goin' to put a tax on bachelors. That's r-right. Why shudden't there be a tax on bachelors? There's one on dogs.'"
Loud was the laughter in the smoke shed at this sally, and none laughed louder than those professional bachelors, the priests.
Street in Youghal
"'I suppose,' said Mr. Dooley, 'that next year ye expect to see me throttin' around with a leather collar an' a brass tag on me neck. If me tax isn't paid th' bachelor wagon'll come around, an' th' bachelor catcher'll lasso me an' take me to the pound, an' I'll be kept there three days, an' thin, if still unclaimed, I'll be dhrowned, onless th' pound keeper takes a fancy to me.'" (Loud laughter by priests and laymen.)
The ice thus broken by my friend Dunne, I was soon in conversation with the group, and discovered two compatriots from Indiana, one a native of Ireland returning to visit it once more before he departed, the other his son.