“I’m not funnin’ you at all,” says Jer, “it’s thrue what I tell you—it’s your father’s wandherin’ sowl,” says he, “that’s naturally tuk pissession iv the ould gandher’s body,” says he; “I know him many ways, and I wondher,” says he, “you do not know the cock iv his eye yourself,” says he.
“Oh!” says Terence, “what will I ever do, at all, at all,” says he; “it’s all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve times at the laste,” says he.
“That can’t be helped now,” says Jer, “it was a sevare act, surely,” says he, “but it’s too late to lamint for it now,” says he; “the only way to prevint what’s past,” says he, “is to put a stop to it before it happens,” says he.
“Thrue for you,” says Terence, “but how did you come to the knowledge iv my father’s sowl,” says he, “bein’ in the ould gandher?” says he.
“If I tould you,” says Jer, “you would not understand me,” says he, “without book-larnin’ an’ gasthronomy,” says he; “so ax me no questions,” says he, “an I’ll tell you no lies; but b’lieve me in this much,” says he, “it’s your father that’s in it,” says he, “an’ if I don’t make him spake to-morrow mornin’,” says he, “I’ll give you lave to call me a fool,” says he.
“Say no more,” says Terence, “that settles the business,” says he; “an’ oh! is it not a quare thing,” says he, “for a dacent, respictable man,” says he, “to be walkin’ about the counthry in the shape iv an ould gandher,” says he; “and, oh, murdher, murdher! is it not often I plucked him,” says he, “an’ tundher and turf, might not I have ate him,” says he; and wid that he fell into a could parspiration, savin’ your prisince, an’ was on the pint iv faintin’ wid the bare notions iv it.
Well, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry, to him, quite an aisy—“Terence,” says he, “don’t be aggravatin’ yourself,” says he, “for I have a plan composed that’ll make him spake out,” says he, “an’ tell what it is in the world he’s wantin’,” says he; “an’ mind an’ don’t be comin’ in wid your gosther an’ to say agin anything I tell you,” says he, “but jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought back,” says he, “how that we’re goin’ to sind him to-morrow mornin’ to market,” says he; “an’ if he don’t spake to-night,” says he, “or gother himself out iv the place,” says he, “put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the cart,” says he, “straight to Tipperary, to be sould for aitin’,” says he, “along wid the two gossoons,” says he; “an’ my name isn’t Jer Garvan,” says he, “if he doesn’t spake out before he’s half way,” says he; “an’ mind,” says he, “as soon as ever he says the first word,” says he, “that very minute bring him off to Father Crotty,” says he, “an’ if his Raverance doesn’t make him ratire,” says he, “into the flames of Purgathory,” says he, “there’s no vartue in my charms,” says he.
Well, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room agin, an’ they all begined to talk iv sindin’ him the nixt mornin’ to be sould for roastin’ in Tipperary, jist as if it was a thing andoubtingly settled; but not a notice the gandher tuk, no more nor if they wor spaking iv the Lord Liftenant; an’ Terence desired the boy to get ready the kish for the poulthry “an’ to settle it out wid hay soft and shnug,” says he, “for it’s the last jauntin’ the poor ould gandher ‘ill get in this world,” says he.
Well, as the night was getting late, Terence was growin’ mighty sorrowful an’ down-hearted in himself entirely wid the notions iv what was going to happen. An’ as soon as the wife an’ the crathurs war fairly in bed, he brought out some illigant potteen, an’ himself and Jer Garvan sot down to it, an’ the more anasy Terence got, the more he dhrank, and himself and Jer Garvan finished a quart betune them: it wasn’t an imparial though, an’ more’s the pity, for them wasn’t anvinted antil short since; but sorra a much matther it signifies any longer if a pint could hould two quarts, let alone what it does, sinst Father Mathew begin’d to give the pledge, an’ wid the blessin’ iv timperance to deginerate Ireland. An’ sure I have the medle myself; an’ it’s proud I am iv that same, for abstamiousness is a fine thing, although it’s mighty dhry.