“So I was,” said Andy, beginning the account of his misfortunes afresh to his mother, who from time to time would break in with indiscriminate maledictions on Andy, as well as his forsworn damsel; and when the account was ended, she poured out a torrent of abuse upon her unfortunate forsaken son, which riveted him to the floor in utter amazement.
“I thought I'd get pity here, at all events,” said poor Andy; “but instead o' that it's the worst word and the hardest name in your jaw you have for me.”
“And sarve you right, you dirty cur,” said his mother. “I ran off like a fool when I heerd of your good fortune, and see the condition that baggage left me in—my teeth knocked in and my eye knocked out, and all for your foolery, because you couldn't keep what you got.”
“Sure, mother, I tell you—”
“Howld your tongue, you omadhaun! And then I go to Squire O'Grady's to look for you, and there I hear you lost that place, too.”
“Faix, it's little loss,” said Andy.
“That's all you know about it, you goose; you lose the place just when the man's dead and you'd have had a shuit o' mournin'. Oh, you are the most misfortunate divil, Andy Rooney, this day in Ireland—why did I rear you at all?”
“Squire O'Grady dead!” said Andy, in surprise and also with regret for his late master.
“Yis—and you've lost the mournin'—augh!”
“Oh, the poor Squire!” said Andy.