“Whatever it is,” says he, “it’s in the room wid us,” says he. “The Lord be marciful to us!” says he.
“I tould you not to be cursin’,” says she; “bad luck to you,” says she, “for an ommadhaun!” for she was a very religious woman in herself.
“Sure, he’s buried in Spain,” says he; “an’ it is not for one little innocent expression,” says he, “he’d be comin’ all that way to annoy the house,” says he.
Well, while they war talkin,’ Bill turns in the way he was sleepin’ into an aisier imposture; and as soon as he stopped snorin’ ould Tim Donovan’s courage riz agin, and says he.
“I’ll go to the kitchen,” says he, “an’ light a rish,” says he.
An’ with that away wid him, an’ the wife kep’ workin’ the beads all the time, an’ before they kem back Bill was snorin’ as loud as ever.
“Oh! bloody wars—I mane the blessed saints above us!—that deadly sound,” says he; “it’s going on as lively as ever,” says he.
“I’m as wake as a rag,” says his wife, says she, “wid the fair anasiness,” says she. “It’s out iv the little closet it’s comin’,” says she.
“Say your prayers,” says he, “an’ hould your tongue,” says he, “while I discoorse it,” says he. “An’ who are ye,” says he, “in the name iv all the holy saints?” says he, givin’ the door a dab iv a crusheen that wakened Bill inside.