'Well, it's nat dirty,' says she.
'It is throwin' away my time I have been all my life,' says he; 'livin' with you at all, and stuck at a loom, nothin' but a poor waiver, when it is Saint George or the Dhraggin I ought to be, which is two of the siven champions o' Christendom.'
'Well, suppose they christened him twice as much,' says the wife; 'sure, what's that to uz?'
'Don't put in your prate,' says he; 'you ignorant sthrap,' says he. 'You're vulgar, woman—you're vulgar—mighty vulgar; but I'll have nothin' more to say to any dirty snakin' thrade again—divil a more waivin' I'll do.'
'Oh, Thady dear, and what'll the children do then?'
'Let them go play marvels,' says he.
'That would be but poor feedin' for them, Thady.'
'They shan't want for feedin',' says he; 'for it's a rich man I'll be soon, and a great man too.'
'Usha, but I'm glad to hear it, darlin',—though I dunna how it's to be, but I think you had betther go to bed, Thady.'
'Don't talk to me of any bed but the bed o' glory, woman,' says he, lookin' mortial grand.