“While he was capering this way about the room, he knocked down his hat, and with it a pack of cards he put into it before leaving home, for he was mighty fond of a game.
“‘Will ye take a hand, Mr. Free?’ said he, as he gathered them up and sat down beside the fire.
“‘I’m convanient,’ said he, and began dealing out as if there was a partner fornenst him.
“When my father used to get this far in the story, he became very confused. He says that once or twice he mistook the liquor, and took a pull at the bottle of poteen instead of the punch; and the last thing he remembers was asking poor Father Dwyer if he would draw near to the fire, and not be lying there near the door.
“With that he slipped down on the ground and fell fast asleep. How long he lay that way he could never tell. When he awoke and looked up, his hair nearly stood on an end with fright. What do you think he seen fornenst him, sitting at the other side of the fire, but Father Dwyer himself. There he was, divil a lie in it, wrapped up in one of the mourning cloaks, trying to warm his hands at the fire. “‘Salve hoc nomine patri!’ said my father, crossing himself, ‘av it’s your ghost, God presarve me!’
“‘Good-evening t’ye, Mr. Free,’ said the ghost; ‘and av I might be bould, what’s in the jug?’—for ye see, my father had it under his arm fast, and never let it go when he was asleep.
“‘Pater noster qui es in,—poteen, sir,’ said my father; for the ghost didn’t look pleased at his talking Latin.
“‘Ye might have the politeness to ax if one had a mouth on him, then,’ says the ghost.
“‘Sure, I didn’t think the likes of you would taste sperits.’
“‘Try me,’ said the ghost; and with that he filled out a glass, and tossed it off like a Christian.