An' sure enough what was it but Bill Malowney that was dhroppin' asleep in the closet, an' snorin' like a church organ.
'Is it a pig,' says he, 'or is it a Christian?'
'Arra! listen to the tune iv it,' says she; 'sure a pig never done the like is that,' says she.
'Whatever it is,' says he, 'it's in the room wid us,' says he. 'The Lord be marciful to us!' says he.
'I tould you not to be cursin',' says she; 'bad luck to you,' says she, 'for an ommadhaun!' for she was a very religious woman in herself.
'Sure, he's buried in Spain,' says he; 'an' it is not for one little innocent expression,' says he, 'he'd be comin' all that a way to annoy the house,' says he.
Well, while they war talkin', Bill turns in the way he was sleepin' into an aisier imposture; and as soon as he stopped snorin' ould Tim Donovan's courage riz agin, and says he:
'I'll go to the kitchen,' says he, 'an' light a rish,' says he.
An' with that away wid him, an' the wife kep' workin' the beads all the time, an' before he kem back Bill was snorin' as loud as ever.
'Oh! bloody wars—I mane the blessed saints about us!—that deadly sound,' says he; 'it's going on as lively as ever,' says he.