“Aw, go on wid yer preacher an' yer hull outfit! The docthor yonder's worth—”
“Now, Mr. Tate, this 'ere's goin' past the limit. I can put up with a good deal of abuse from a sick man, but w'en I 'ears any reflections thrown out at this 'ere 'ospital an' them as runs it, by the livin' jumpin' Jemima Jebbs! I hain't goin' to stand it, not me!” Ben's voice rose in a shrill cry of anger. “I'd 'ave yeh to know that the 'ead of this 'ere hinstitution—”
“Aw, whist now, ye blatherin' bletherskite, who's talkin' about the Head? The Head, is it? An' d'ye think I'd sthand—Howly Moses! here she comes, an' the angels thimsilves wud luk like last year beside her!”
“Good-morning, Tommy. Why, I do think you are looking remarkably well to-day,” cried the matron, her brisk step, bright face, and cheery voice eloquent of her splendid vitality and high spirit.
“Och! thin, an' who wudn't luk well in your prisince?” said the gallant little Irishman, with a touch to his hat. “Sure, it's better than the sunlight to see the smile av yer pritty face.”
“Now, Tommy, Tommy, we'll have to be sending you away if you go on like that. It's a sure sign of convalescence when an Irishman begins to blarney.”
“Blarney, indade! Bedad, it's God's mercy I don't have to blarney, for I haven't the strength to do that same.”
“Well, Tommy, don't try. Keep your strength for getting well again. Ben, I think I saw Mr. Boyle riding up. Will you please go and take his horse and show him up to the office. I am just wanting his help in preparing my annual report.”
“Report!” cried Ben. “A day like this! No, sez I; git out into the woods an' git a little colour into yer cheeks. It'll do him good, too. This' ere hinstitution is takin' the life out o' yeh.”
And Ben went away grumbling his discontent and wrath at the matron's inability to take thought for herself.