"Call, is it call? No; but I'm roaring for you this half hour. Come here. Have you any of the cordial dhrops agin the sickness?—you know what I mean."
"Is it brandy, ma'am?"
"No, it isn't brandy;"
"We have got gin, ma'am, and bottled porter—cider, ma'am, if you like."
"Agh, no! sure I want the dhrops agin the sickness."
"Don't know indeed, ma'am."
"Ah, you stupid creature; maybe you're not the real steward. What's your name?"
"Smith, ma'am."
"Ah, I thought so; go away, man, go away."
This injunction, given in a diminuendo cadence, was quickly obeyed, and all was silence for a moment or two. Once more was I dropping asleep, when the same voice as before burst out with—