“For that's a blackguard laddher,” said he; “it turned undher me like an eel, bad luck to it!—tell her I'd go up myself, only the ground is slipping from undher me—and the laddher—”
Bridget went off, leaving Jack growling forth anathemas against the ground and the ladder, and returned speedily with the mock-lady and her attendant squires.
“Oh, my jewel!” roared Jack, as he caught sight of his prize. He scrambled up on his legs, and made a rush at Andy, who imitated a woman's scream and fright at the expected embrace; but it was with much greater difficulty he suppressed his laughter at the headlong fall with which Big Jack plunged his head into a heap of turf, [Footnote: Peat] and hugged a sack of malt which lay beside it.
Andy endeavoured to overcome the provocation to merriment by screeching; and as Bridget caught the sound of this tendency towards laughter between the screams, she thought it was the commencement of a fit of hysterics, and it accounted all the better for Andy's extravagant antics.
“Oh, the craythur is frightened out of her life!” said Bridget. “Leave her to me,” said she to the men. “There, jewel machree!” she continued to Andy, soothingly, “don't take on you that way—don't be afeerd, you're among friends—Jack is only dhrunk dhrinking your health, darlin', but he adores you.” Andy screeched.
“But don't be afeerd, you'll be thrated tender, and he'll marry you, darlin', like an honest woman!”
Andy squalled.
“But not to-night, jewel—don't be frightened.”
Andy gave a heavy sob at the respite.
“Boys, will you lift Jack out o' the turf, and carry him up into the air? 't will be good for him, and this dacent girl will sleep with me to-night.”