“Why, thin, bad luck to your impidence,” says the waiver, “would no place sarve you but that? and is it spyling my brekquest yiz are, you dirty bastes?” And with that, bein’ altogether cruked-tempered at the time, he lifted his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish o’ stirabout, and killed no less than threescore and tin flies at the one blow. It was threescore and tin exactly, for he counted the carcases one by one, and laid them out an a clane plate for to view them.
“HE KEM HOME IN THE EVENIN’, AFTHER SPENDIN’ EVERY RAP HE HAD.”
Well, he felt a powerful sperit risin’ in him, when he seen the slaughther he done at one blow, and with that he got as consaited as the very dickens, and not a sthroke more work he’d do that day, but out he wint, and was fractious and impident to every one he met, and was squarin’ up into their faces and sayin’, “Look at that fist! that’s the fist that killed threescore and tin at one blow—Whoo!”
With that all the neighbours thought he was crack’d, and faith, the poor wife herself thought the same when he kem home in the evenin’, afther spendin’ every rap he had in dhrink, and swaggerin’ about the place, and lookin’ at his hand every minit.
“Indeed, an’ your hand is very dirty, sure enough, Thady, jewel,” says the poor wife; and thrue for her, for he rowled into a ditch comin’ home. “You had betther wash it, darlin’.”
“How dar’ you say dirty to the greatest hand in Ireland?” says he, going to bate her.
“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 o’ the siven champions o’ Christendom.”
“Well, suppose they christened him twice as much,” says the wife, “sure, what’s that to uz?”