“Becase,” says Jer, “if it isn’t done—you’ll never be asy agin,” says he, “or pusilanimous in your mind,” says he; “so ax no more questions, but do my biddin’,’ says he.
“Well,” says Terence, “have your own way,” says he.
An’ wid that he tuck the ould gandher, and giv’ it to one iv the gossoons.
“An’ take care,” says he, “don’t smother the crathur,” says he.
Well, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, says he, “Do you know what that ould gandher is, Terence Mooney?”
“Divil a taste,” says Terence.
“Well then,” says Jer, “the gandher is your own father,” says he.
“It’s jokin’ you are,” says Terence, turnin’ mighty pale; “how can an ould gandher be my father?” says he.
“I’m not funnin’ you at all,” says Jer; “it’s thrue what I tell you—it’s your father’s wandhrin’ sowl,” says he, “that’s naturally tuck pissession iv the ould gandher’s body,” says he; “I know him many ways, and I wondher,” says he, “you do not know the cock iv his eye yourself,” says he.
“Oh, blur an’ ages!” says Terence, “what the divil will I ever do at all at all,” says he; “it’s all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve times at the laste,” says he.