"Oh! they'll do you good, your honour," said the nurse-tender, curtsying, and uncorking bottles, and opening a pill-box.
O'Grady made a face at the pill-box, and repeated the word "pills" several times, with an expression of extreme disgust. Pills—pills—kills—wills—ay—make your wills—make them—take them—shake them. When taken—to be well shaken—shew me that bottle."
The nurse-tender handed a phial, which O'Grady shook violently.
"Curse them all!" said the squire. "A pretty thing to have a gentleman's body made a perfect sink, for these blackguard doctors and apothecaries to pour their dirty drugs into—faugh! drugs—mugs—jugs!" he shook the phial again, and looked through it.
"Isn't it nice and pink, darlin'?" said the nurse-tender.
"Pink!" said O'Grady eying her askance, as if he could have eaten her. "Pink, you old besom, pink"—he uncorked the phial, and put it to his nose. "Pink—phew—!" and he repeated a rhyme to pink which would not look well in print.
"Now, sir, dear, there's a little blisther just to go on your chest—if you plaze."
"A what?"
"A warm plasther, dear."
"A blister you said, you old divil!"