He turned the color of his leather breeches.
"Mother o'Moses!" ses he, "Is that Conn, the Shaughraun, on my brown mare?"
"Bad luck to me!" ses I, "It's no one else!"
"You sthole my horse," ses the Squire.
"That's a lie!" ses I, "for it was your horse sthole me!"
Moya.—(Laughing.) And what did he say to that, Conn?
Conn.—I couldn't stop to hear, Moya, for just then we took a stone wall together an' I left him behind in the ditch.
Mrs. O'K.—You'll get a month in jail for this.
Conn.—Well, it was worth it.
BOUCICAULT.