"Sure the mail goes to all the villages in Ireland, sir."
"You pwovoking blockhead!—Good Heavens, how stoopid you Iwish are!—the village that leads to Dublin."
"'Faith they all lead to Dublin, sir."
"Confound you—you must know!—the posting village, you know—that is, not the post town, if you know what a post town is."
"To be sure I do, sir—where they sell blankets, you mane."
"No—no—no! I want to go to the village where they keep post-chaises—now you know."
"Faix, they have po'chayses in all the villages here; there's no betther accommodation for man or baste in the world than here, sir."
Furlong was mute from downright vexation, till his rage got vent in an oath, another denunciation of Irish stupidity, and at last a declaration that the driver must know the village.
"How would I know it, sir, when you don't know it yourself?" asked the groom; "I suppose it has a name to it, and if you tell me that, I'll dhrive you there fast enough."
"I cannot wemember your howwid names here—it is a Bal, or Bally, or some such gibbewish——"