“A kind of Jack-of all-thrades?” says the saint.
“Not exactly that,” says Paddy, thinkin’ the saint was thryin’ to make fun of him. “In fact,” says he, “I’m a general dayler.”
“An’ what do you generally dale in?” axes the saint.
“All’s fish that comes to my net,” says Paddy, thinkin’, of coorse, ’twould put Saint Pether in good humour to be reminded of ould times.
“An’ is it a fisherman you are, thin?” axes the saint.
“Well, no,” says Paddy, “though I’ve done a little huckstherin’ in fish in my time; but I was partial to scrap-iron, as a rule.”
“To tell you the thruth,” says the saint, “I’m not over fond of general daylin’, but of coorse my private feelin’s don’t intherfere wud my duties here. I’m on the gates agen my will for the matther of that; but that’s naither here nor there so far as yourself is consarned, Paddy,” says he.
“It must be a hard dhrain on the constitution at times,” says Paddy, “to be on the door from mornin’ till night.”
“’Tis,” says the saint, “of a busy day—but I must go an’ have a look at the books. Paddy Power is your name?” says he.
“Yis,” says Paddy; “an’, though ’tis meself that says it, I’m not ashamed of it.”