'Hand what over? Is it me yer talkin' to, surr?'
'Yes, I want that money you've got. I'm the highwayman.'
'Now you're jokin', surr,' said the natural anxiously. 'Shure ye wouldn't go to play a thrick that road upon a poor bhoy.'
'Don't stand jabberin' there, give me the hard stuff.'
'An' he was the thafe ahl the time, see that now, he! he! he!' and the idiot went into a fit of laughter, rocking himself to and fro on his horse, and wagging his hands helplessly.
'Give me the money, damn you,' said the robber out of patience as he drew a pistol from his holster, 'or I'll shoot you.'
'Oh, wirra, wirra, shure yer 'ahner wouldn't harrum Barney, he's only a nathral, that never done no one no hurt, may the saints presarve ye.'
'I don't want to hurt you,' said the other, 'but I must have that two hundred pounds, so just hand it over, and no more foolery.'
'Ah thin,' cried the idiot, flying into a passion, which lent fluency to his invective, 'bad cess to ye for a decaivin' sarpent, may the divil roast ye for yer blandandherin' ways, gettin' me saycrit fram me, an' thin thurnin' on me. Bad scran to yer sowl. My curse and the curse of Crummle rest on ye. Sorra till ye. May ye live till ye wish ye were dead, an' die like a dog in a ditch, but the divil a thraneen of the masther's wud ye get, if I had to throw it from here into the say, so now,' and before the robber could prevent him he had taken the two packages of money from his pocket and thrown them down the precipice.
'Ay, luk at it now, luk at the goold aleppin' an' arowlin' over the stones, there's yer money, ye thafe ye, much good may it do ye.'