Enter PAT COXE.
Pat. Out of hand clane! that job’s nately done. The turf-rick, sir, ‘s built up cliver, with the malt snug in the middle of its stomach—so were the shupervishor a conjuror even, barring he’d dale with the ould one, he’d never suspict a sentence of it.
O’Bla. Not he—he’s no conjuror: many’s the dozen tricks I played him afore now.
Pat. But, counshillor, there’s the big veshel in the little passage—I got a hint from a friend, that the shuper got information of the spirits in that from some villain.
O’Bla. And do you think I don’t know a trick for that, too?
Pat. No doubt: still, counshillor, I’m in dread of my life that that great big veshel won’t be implied in a hurry.
O’Bla. Won’t it? but you’ll see it will, though; and what’s more, them spirits will turn into water for the shupervisor.
Pat. Water! how?
O’Bla. Asy—the ould tan-pit that’s at the back of the distillery.
Pat. I know—what of it?