"And as to go putting a collar and harness on a crayture that has the skin sthripped," says I, "if it was an ass itself the polis'd be afther ye for it."
"Indeed I'm told so," says he.
"Musha, Divil's cure to ye!" says I, "isn't it what ye can be tellin' your wife?" says I. "How simple ye are!" says I.
Not another word he spoke but to walk away out o' the house.
"Ye have the man annoyed with your thricks, Conny," says me wife, "why wouldn't ye give him what he was axing and not to be blackguarding that way? Maybe yerself wouldn't be so ready to go borrowing a harness for your wife?" says she.
"Maybe if I was married to Anne Roche it isn't me razor she'd take to go cuttin' spuds for seed?" says I.
"Arrah, sit down to your breakfast, Conny," says she, "and have done with your chat!"
"I'm tellin' you," says I, "if Anne Roche goes to town on Pathrick's Day, it's her own two legs'll carry her!"
"Glory be to God!" says me wife, "she'll be mad altogether! She'll tear iron!" says she.
"Divil mend her!" says I.