“Bekase he’s not dacently drissed. He’s got nothin’ on him but his shirt—exceptin’ the rags that Misther Stump’s jist tied all roun’ him. Be japers! thare’s enough av them to make him a whole shoot—coat, waiscoat, and throwsers—trath is thare.”
“Señor, I don’t understand you.”
“Yez don’t? Shure an I’ve spoke plain enough! Don’t I till ye that the masther’s in bid?”
“In bed! At this hour? I hope there’s nothing—”
“The matther wid him, yez wur goin’ to say? Alannah, that same is there—a powerful dale the matther wid him—enough to kape him betwane the blankets for weeks to come.”
“Oh, señor! Do not tell me that he is ill?”
“Don’t I till ye! Arrah now me honey; fwhat ud be the use av consalin’ it? It ud do it no good; nayther cyan it do him any harm to spake about it? Yez moight say it afore his face, an he won’t conthradict ye.”
“He is ill, then. O, sir, tell me, what is the nature of his illness—what has caused it?”
“Shure an I cyant answer only wan av thim interrogataries—the first yez hiv phut. His disaze pursades from some ugly tratement he’s been resavin—the Lord only knows what, or who administhered it. He’s got a bad lig; an his skin luks as if he’d been tied up in a sack along wid a score av angry cats. Sowl! thare’s not the brenth av yer purty little hand widout a scratch upon it. Worse than all, he’s besoide hisself.”
“Beside himself?”