So one night, when Nell Gorman an' her new husband, Andy Curtis, was snug an' warm in bed, an' fast asleep, an' everything quite, who should come to the door, sure enough, but Jim Soolivan himself, an' he beginned flakin' the door wid a big blackthorn stick he had, an' roarin' out like the divil to open the door, for he had a dhrop taken.
'What the divil's the matther?' says Andy Curtis, wakenin' out iv his sleep.
'Who's batin' the door?' says Nell; 'what's all the noise for?' says she.
'Who's in it?' says Andy.
'It's me,' says Jim.
'Who are you?' says Andy; 'what's your name?'
'Jim Soolivan,' says he.
'By jabers, you lie,' says Andy.
'Wait till I get at you,' says Jim, hittin' the door a lick iv the wattle you'd hear half a mile off.
'It's him, sure enough,' says Nell; 'I know his speech; it's his wandherin' sowl that can't get rest, the crass o' Christ betune us an' harm.'