“The wind and weather get into my bones, I can tell you,” said the watchman; “and I begin my work in the fog just when you’re getting out of it.”
“And that’s thrue, worse luck. Take a dhrop of coffee, allanna, before I lave ye.”
“No, thank ye, missus; I’ve just had my supper.”
“And would that privint ye from takin’ the cup I’d be offering ye, wid a taste of somethin’ in it against the damps, barrin’ the bottle was empty?”
“Well, I’m not particular—as you are so pressing. Thank ye, mum; here’s your good health.”
I heard the watchman say this, though at the moment I dared not peep, and then I heard him cough.
“My sakes, Biddy, you make your—coffee—strong.”
“Strong, darlin’? It’s pure, ye mane. It’s the rale craythur, that, and bedad! there’s a dhrop or two left that’s not worth the removing, and we’ll share it annyhow. Here’s to them that’s far—r away.”
“Thank you, thank you, woman.”
“Thim that’s near, and thim that’s far away!” said Biddy, improving upon her toast.