“Masther Maurice, fwhat, in the name of the Howly Vargin, is the matther wid ye?”
“Nothing, Phelim—nothing, mabohil! What makes you think there is?”
“Alannah! How kyan I help thinkin’ it! Yez kyant get a wink av sleep; niver since ye returned the last time from the Sittlement. Och! yez hiv seen somethin’ there that kapes ye awake? Shure now, it isn’t wan av them Mixikin girls—mowchachas, as they call them? No, I won’t believe it. You wudn’t be wan av the owld Geralds to care for such trash as them.”
“Nonsense, my good fellow! There’s nothing the matter with me. It’s all your own imagination.”
“Trath, masther, yez arr mistaken. If there’s anything asthray wid me imaginashun, fhwat is it that’s gone wrong wid your own? That is, whin yez arr aslape—which aren’t often av late.”
“When I’m asleep! What do you mean, Phelim?”
“What div I mane? Fwhy, that wheniver yez close your eyes an think yez are sleepin’, ye begin palaverin’, as if a preast was confessin’ ye!”
“Ah! Is that so? What have you heard me say?”
“Not much, masther, that I cud make sinse out av. Yez be always tryin’ to pronounce a big name that appares to have no indin’, though it begins wid a point!”
“A name! What name?”