“I am, Owen Cunnin', I am,” maintained John.
“Thin I repate ye're the loire!” And once more they came to the proof, until Owen lay upon the ground kicking to keep his opponent off.
“Will I bring ye the dhrop of whiskey, Owen?” suggested John, tenderly.
His cousin by marriage crawled to the fence and sat up, without replying.
“I've the flask in me pouch, Owen.”
“Kape it there.”
“But sure if ye foight wid me ye'll dhrink wid me?”
“I'll not dhrink a dhrop wid ye.”
The cobbler panted heavily. “The loikes of you that do be goin' to marry on a Frinch quarther-brade, desavin' her, and the father and the mother and the praste, that you do be a widdy.”