"Faix, the robbers here, your honour, never axes you to stop at all, but they stop you without axin', or by your lave, or wid your lave. Sure, I was only afeerd you'd dhrive over the man in the road."
"What was that man in the woad doing?"
"Nothin' at all, 'faith, for he wasn't able; he was dhrunk, sir."
"The postilion said he was his bwother."
"Yis, your honour, and he's a postilion himself—only he lost his horses and the shay—he got dhrunk, and fell off."
"Those wascally postilions often get dwunk, I suppose?"
"Oh, common enough, sir, particular now about the 'lection time; for the gentlemin is dhrivin' over the country like mad, right and left, and gives the boys money to dhrink their health, till they are killed a'most with the falls they get."
"Then postilions often fall on the woads here?"
"Throth, the roads is covered with them sometimes, when the 'lections comes an."
"What howwid immowality! I hope you're not dwunk?"