"Bad luck to you, do you know where you are?" said Mick.
"Well!" was the drunken ejaculation.
"By this and that, it's my brother Pether," said Mick. "We wondhered what had kept him so late with the return shay, and this is the way it is. He tumbled off his horses, dhrunk: and where's the shay, I wondher? Oh, murdher! what will Misther Doyle say?"
"What's the weason you don't dwive on?" said Mr. Furlong, putting his head out of the chaise.
"It's one on the road here, your honour, almost killed."
"Was it wobbers?" asked Mr. Furlong.
"Maybe you'd take him into the shay wid you, sir?"
"What a wequest!—dwive on, sir!"
"Sure I can't lave my brother on the road, sir."
"Your bwother!—and you pwesume to put your bwother to wide with me? You'll put me in the debdest wage if you don't dwive on."