“Who did, thin?”
“Who? The Reverend Richard Boyle is the man.”
“Aw, run in an' shut the dure! Ye're walkin' in yer slape.”
“Mr. Tate, I 'appen to know the facts in this 'ere particular case, beggin' yer 'umble pardon.” Ben's h's became more lubricous with his rising indignation. “An' I 'appen to know that agin the Pioneer's violent opposition, agin the business men, agin his own helder a-keepin' the drug shop, agin the hagent of the town site an' agin the whole blawsted, bloomin' population, that 'ere preacher put up a fight, by the jumpin' Jemima! that made 'em all 'unt their 'oles!”
“Aw, Benny, it's wanderin' agin ye are! Did ye niver hear how the docthor walked intil the big meetin' an' in five minutes made the iditor av the Pioneer an' the town site agent an' that bunch look like last year's potaty patch fer ould shaws, wid the spache he gave thim?”
“No,” said Ben, “I didn't 'ear any such thing, I didn't.”
“Well, thin, go out into society, me bhoy, an' kape yer ears clane.”
“My ears don't require no such cleanin' as some I know!” cried Ben, whose self-control was strained to the point of breaking.
“Manin' mesilf agin. Begorra, it's yer game leg that saves ye from a batin'!”
“I don't fight no sick man in our own 'ospital,” replied Ben scornfully, “but w'en yer sufficiently recovered, I'd be proud to haccommodate yeh. But as fer this 'ere preacher—”