Anyhow, up goes Paddy, an’ before he knew where he was he found himself standin’ outside the gates of Paradise. Of coorse, he partly guessed there ’ud be throuble, but he thought he’d put a bowld face on, so he gives a hard double-knock at the door, an’ a holy saint shoves back the slide an’ looks out at him through an iron gratin’.
“God save all here!” says Paddy.
“God save you kindly!” says the saint.
“Maybe I’m too airly?” says Paddy, dhreadin’ all the time that ’tis the cowld showlder he’d get.
“’Tis naither airly nor late here,” says the saint, “pervidin’ you’re on the way-bill. What’s yer name?” says he.
“Paddy Power,” says the little man from Portlaw.
“There’s so many of that name due here,” says the saint, “that I must ax you for further particulars.”
“You’re quite welcome, your reverence,” says Paddy.
“What’s your occupation?” says the saint.
“Well,” says Paddy, “I can turn my hand to anything in raison.”