“Why, thin, thank goodness, no; it’s all about my back an’ my hinches.”
“Divil a thing it is but a complaint they call an alloverness ails you, you shkaimer o’ the world wide. ’Tis the oil o’ the hazel, or a rubbin’ down wid an oak towel, you want. Get up, I say, or, by this an’ by that, I’ll flail you widin an inch o’ your life.”
“Is it beside yourself you are, Condy?”
“No, no, faix; I’ve found you out: Ellish is afther tellin’ me that it was a smotherin’ on the heart; but it’s a pain in the small o’ the back wid yourself. Oh, you born desaver! Get up, I say agin, afore I take the stick to you!”
“Why, thin, all sorts o’ fortune to you, Condy—ha, ha, ha!—but you’re the sarra’s pet, for there’s no escapin’ you. What was that I hard atween you an’ Ellish?” said Peter, getting up.
“The sarra matther to you. If you behave yourself, we may let you into the wrong side o’ the sacret afore you die. Go an’ get us a pint o’ what you know,” replied Condy, as he and Peter entered the kitchen.
“Ellish,” said Peter, “I suppose you must give it to thim. Give it—give it, avourneen. Now, Condy, whin’ll you pay me for this?”
“Never fret yourself about that; you’ll be ped. Honour bright, as the black said whin he stole the boots.”
“Now, Pether,” said the wife, “sure it’s no use axin me to give it, afther the promise I made last night. Give it yourself; for me, I’ll have no hand in sich things, good or bad. I hope we’ll soon get out of it altogether, for myself’s sick an’ sore of it, dear knows!”
Peter accordingly furnished them with the liquor, and got a promise that Condy would certainly pay him at mass on the following Sunday, which was only three days distant. The fun of the boys was exuberant at Condy’s success: they drank, and laughed, and sang, until pint after pint followed in rapid succession.