“Man, man,” sez he; “ye anney me. Didn’t they put thim in jail?”
“They did,” sez oi; “but that’s no punishment.”
“Well, phat do ye call punishment?” sez the ould King, wid an expectant grin.
“Infantile methods,” sez oi. “Phat they do to bad childer.”
“An’ plaze ye, phat’s that?” sez he.
“Spank thim,” sez oi; “savin’ yer prisince. Wan spank fer the furst offinse; foive fer the sicond, an’ twinty-foive fer the third.”
Well, begorrah, ye shud hev seen the ould lad laff. He thrun up his hans an’ his oyes to hiven, an’ laffed till he was weepin’.
“Glory be,” sez he; “but ye are a joker. Bad scran to ye, if we perpetrated such an’ outrage the whole wirld wud laff at us.”
“Not a whit,” sez oi. “The wirld wud laff, true fer ye, but not at ye; at the Suff-Rage-Etts; an’ they niver cud stan’ bein’ laffed at.”
“Suppose now,” sez oi; “yer departmint of the interior afther makin’ a bit av a rumble, as it do sometimes, shud desoid that the noise it med waz just as nice a noise as phat ye made wid yer vocal chords; an’ accordin’ it wint on stroike an’ rayfused to do its offis, declarin’ it waz a musical box—what wud become av ye whin ye culdent hear yerself spake fer yer loud internal rumblin’, an’ no digistin’ goin’ on the whoile? Shure ye’d be dead in a week, an’ ye’d take strong medicine to korrec yer rumblin’ and prideful innards.”