“Throth, thin, plaze your worship,” says the waiver, “you look as yellow as if you swallowed twelve yolks this minit.”
“Well, I want this dhraggin to be killed,” says the king. “It will be no throuble in life to you; and I am only sorry that it isn’t betther worth your while, for he isn’t worth fearin’ at all; only I must tell you that he lives in the county Galway, in the middle of a bog, and he has an advantage in that.”
“Oh, I don’t value it in the laste,” says the waiver, “for the last threescore and tin I killed was in a soft place.”
“When will you undhertake the job, thin?” says the king.
“Let me be at him at wanst,” says the waiver.
“That’s what I like,” says the king; “you’re the very man for my money,” says he.
“Talkin’ of money,” says the waiver, “by the same token, I’ll want a thrifle o’ change from you for my thravellin’ charges.”
“As much as you plaze,” says the king; and with the word he brought him into his closet, where there was an owld stockin’ in an oak chest, burstin’ wid goolden guineas.
“Take as many as you plaze,” says the king; and sure enough, my dear, the little waiver stuffed his tin clothes as full as they could howld with them.
“Now I’m ready for the road,” says the waiver.