“Yes.”
“Ah! come, now! Ye’re not goun’ to be beat that a-way by a wild Mick o’ the woods?” He held himself ready for a laugh.
“No, I’m coming back,” said the smiling clergyman, and the laugh came.
“That’s right! But”—as if the thought was a sudden one—“I’ll be dead by thin, willn’t I? Of coorse I will.”
“Yes?” rejoined the clergyman. “How’s that?”
The Irishman turned to the Italian.
“Mr. Ristofalo, we’re a-goin to the pinitintiary, aint we?”
Ristofalo nodded.
“Of coorse we air! Ah! Mr. Preechur, that’s the place!”
“Worse than this?”