'Oh, that won't do,' says his frind; 'I can't wait no more,' says he.
'I don't want you to wait, my dear frind,' says the colonel; 'all I want is, that you'll be plased to kill me before you take me away.'
'With pleasure,' says Owld Nick.
'But will you promise me my choice of dyin' one partic'lar way?' says the colonel.
'Half a dozen ways, if it plazes you,' says he.
'You're mighty obleegin',' says the colonel; 'and so,' says he, 'I'd rather die by bein' hanged with a rope made out of the sands of the say,' says he, lookin' mighty knowin' at the owld fellow.
'I've always one about me,' says the divil, 'to obleege my frinds,' says he; and with that he pulls out a rope made of sand, sure enough.
'Oh, it's game you're makin',' says the colonel, growin' as white as a sheet.
'The game is mine, sure enough,' says the owld fellow, grinnin', with a terrible laugh.