"Oh! it's you, you vagabone, is it?" said he, shaking his whip at Andy, with whom he never had had the honour of a conversation since the memorable day when his horse was nearly killed. "So this is more o' your purty work! Bad cess to you! wasn't it enough for you to nigh-hand kill one o' my horses, without plottin' to chate the rest o' them?"
"Is it me chate them?" said Andy. "Throth, I wouldn't wrong a dumb baste for the world."
"Not he, indeed, Misther Doyle!" said the widow.
"Arrah, woman, don't be talkin' your balderdash to me," said Doyle; "sure you took my good money for your hay!"
"And sure I gave all I had to you—what more could I do?"
"Tare an' ounty, woman! who ever heerd of sich a thing as coverin' up a rock wid hay, and sellin' it as the rale thing?"
"'T was Andy done it, Mr. Doyle; hand, act, or part, I hadn't in it."
"Why, then, aren't you ashamed o' yourself?" said Owny Doyle, addressing Andy.
"Why would I be ashamed?" said Andy.
"For chatin'—that's the word, since you provoke me."