“’Twas not so long, Sorr, for whin me sisther-in-law Theresa’s sicond child, she thot aftherwards married Bicie Sullivan’s lad, wuz sick at th’ toime av me wife’s brother’s wake, Oi stayed from wurrk two days fur ter luk ter th’ child an’ so——”
“O, well—that’s near enough—say nine years,” I interrupted.
“Oi’ll say whativer you want, Sorr—but, be th’ same token, ’tis thruth Oi do be tellin’ you now—betwane oursilves loike.”
I looked sternly at Clancy’s rotund countenance. This case was looming up pregnant with possibilities in the presence of a witness with ready-made testimony and confidential truths. Clancy as a character was all right, but, as a client? I began to be alarmed. This had to be stopped.
“Now, understand once and for all, Clancy,” I exclaimed almost threateningly, “I don’t want you to tell anything at any time except the truth.”
Clancy relapsed again.
“’Tis for you ter know, Sorr,” was all he said.
I looked at the man with desperation in my eyes.
“Now, Michael, listen to me. If there’s anything really wrong in the affidavit, stop me; but, if it’s unimportant, don’t let’s waste time on it. Now, where were we? Here it is:—‘had been in the employ of said Company for nine years——’”