“The devil a one you 'll meet as poor as Ireland,” broke in Dalton, who now had thrown himself headlong into a favorite theme. “Other countries get better, but she gets worse.”
“They say it's the po-po——” screamed Scroope.
“The Pope, is it?”
“No; the po-potatoes is the cause of everything.”
“They might as well hould their prate, then,” broke in Peter, whose dialect always grew broader when he was excited. “Why don't they tell me that if I was too poor to buy broadcloth, it would be better for me to go naked than wear corduroy breeches? Not that I'd mind them, miss!” said be, turning to Martha, who already was blushing at his illustration.
“I fear that the evil lies deeper,” sighed Mrs. Ricketts.
“You mean the bogs?” asked Dal ton.
“Not exactly, sir; but I allude to those drearier swamps of superstition and ignorance that overlay the land.”
Peter was puzzled, and scratched his ear like a man at a nonplus.
“My sister means the pr-pr-pr—”