“Misther Donnehugh,” responded Mr. O'Rourke with great dignity, “ye 're dhrunk agin.”
Mr. Donnehugh, who had not taken more than thirteen ladles of rum-punch, disdained to reply directly.
“He's a dacent lad enough”—this to Mrs. Bilkins—“but his head is wake. Whin he's had two sups o' whiskey he belaves he's dhrunk a bar'l full. A gill o' wather out of a jimmy-john 'd fuddle him, mum.”
“Is n't there anybody to look after him?”
“No, mum, he's an orphan; his father and mother live in the owld counthry, an' a fine hale owld couple they are.”
“Has n't he any family in the town”—
“Sure, mum, he has a family; was n't he married this blessed mornin'?”
“He said so.”
“Indade, thin, he was—the pore divil!”
“And the—the person?” inquired Mrs. Bilkins.