Dennis. Troth, sir, it was good nature whisper'd me to come to your honour: but I believe I've disremembered her directions, for damn the bit do you seem acquainted with her.
Frank. Well, my good friend, I don't mean to be violent; only be so good as to explain your business.
Dennis. Oh, with all the pleasure in life.—Give me good words, and I'm as aisy as an ould glove: but bite my nose off with mustard, and have at you with pepper,—that's my way.—There's a little crature at my house;—she's crying her eyes out;—and she won't get such another pair at the Red Cow; for I've left nobody with her but Mrs. Brulgruddery.
Frank. With her? with who? Who are you talking off?
Dennis. I'd like to know her name myself, sir;—but I have heard but half of it;—and that's Mary.
Frank. Mary!—Can it be she?—Wandering on a heath! seeking refuge in a wretched hovel!
Dennis. A hovel! O fie for shame of yourself, to misbecall a genteel tavern! I'd have you to know my parlour is clean sanded once a week.
Frank. Tell me, directly—what brought her to your house?
Dennis. By my soul, it was Adam's own carriage: a ten-toed machine the haymakers keep in Ireland.
Frank. Damn it, fellow, don't trifle, but tell your story; and, if you can, intelligibly.