“Becase,” says Jer, says he.
“Becase what?” says Terence.
“Becase,” says Jer, “if it isn’t done—you’ll never be aisy agin,” says he, “or pusilanimous in your mind,” says he; “so ax no more questions, but do my biddin,” says he.
“Well,” says Terence, “have your own way,” says he.
An’ wid that he tuk the ould gandher, and giv’ it to one iv the gossoons.
“An’ take care,” says he, “don’t smother the crathur,” says he.
Well, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, says he, “Do you know what that ould gandher is, Terence Mooney?”
“Sorra a taste,” says Terence.
“Well, then,” says Jer, “the gandher is your own father,” says he.
“It’s jokin’ you are,” says Terence, turnin’ mighty pale; “how can an ould gandher be my father?” says he.