"Throth, if 't was your wife was expectin' you, she must wait a bit," said the cook; "sure you wouldn't leave the thirsty curse on my kitchen?—you must take a dhrop before you go; besides the dogs outside the place would ate you onless there was some one they knew along wid you: and sure, if a dog bit you, you couldn't dhrink wather afther, let alone a dhrop o' beer, or a thrifle o' sper'ts: isn't that thrue, Misther Hogan?"
"Indeed an' it is, ma'am," answered Larry; "no one can dhrink afther a dog bites them, and that's the rayson that the larn'd fackleties calls the disaise high-dhry——"
"High-dhry what?" asked the cook.
"That's what I'm thinkin' of," said Larry. "High-dhry—high-dhry—something."
"There's high-dhry snuff," said the cook.
"Oh, no—no, no, ma'am!" said Larry, waving his hand and shaking his head, as if unwilling to be interrupted in endeavouring to recall
"Some fleeting remembrance;"
"high-dhry—po—po—something about po; 'faith, it's not unlike popery," said Larry.
"Don't say popery," cried the cook; "it's a dirty word! Say Roman Catholic when you spake of the faith."
"Do you think I would undhervalue the faith?" said Larry, casting up his eyes. "Oh, Missis Mulligan, you know little of me; d' you think I would undhervalue what is my hope, past, present, and to come?—what makes our hearts light when our lot is heavy?—what makes us love our neighbour as ourselves?"