“Ha!” says Larry.
“Sometimes, in all their poverty and difficulty, I envy the 'fatal fatality,' as the poet says, of such men in catching ideas.”
“That's the genteel name for it,” says Larry.
“Oh!” exclaimed Goggins, enthusiastically, “I know the satisfaction of catching a man, but it's nothing at all compared to catching an idea. For the man, you see, can give hail and get off, but the idea is your own for ever. And then a rhyme—when it has puzzled you all day, the pleasure you have in nabbing it at last!”
“Oh, it's po'thry you're spakin' about,” said Larry.
“To be sure,” said Goggins; “do you think I'd throw away my time on prose? You're burning that bacon, Tim,” said he to his sub.
“Poethry, agen the world!” continued he to Larry, “the Castilian sthraime for me!—Hand us that whisky”—he put the bottle to his mouth and took a swig—“That's good—you do a bit of private here, I suspect,” said he, with a wink, pointing to the bottle.
Larry returned a significant grin, but said nothing. Oh, don't be afraid o' me—I would n't'peach—”
“Sure it's agen the law, and you're a gintleman o' the law,” said Larry.
“That's no rule,” said Goggins: “the Lord Chief Justice always goes to bed, they say, with six tumblers o' potteen under his belt; and dhrink it myself.”