“An’ where are you from?” axes the saint.
“From the parish of Portlaw,” says Paddy.
“I never heard tell of it,” says the saint, bitin’ his thumb.
“Sure it couldn’t be expected you would, sir,” says Paddy, “for it lies at the back of God-speed.”
“Well, stand there, Paddy avic,” says the holy saint, “an’ I’ll have a good look at the books.”
“God bless you!” says Paddy. “Wan ’ud think ’twas born in Munsther you wor, Saint Pether, you have such an iligant accent in spaykin’.”
Faix, Paddy was beginnin’ to dhread that his name wouldn’t be found on the books at all on account of his not havin’ complate absolution, so he thought ’twas the best of his play to say a soft word to the keeper of the kays.
The saint tuk a hasty glance at the enthry-book, but whin Paddy called him Saint Pether he lifted his head an’ he put his face to the wicket again, an’ there was a cunnin’ twinkle in his eye.
“An’ so you thinks ’tis Saint Pether I am?” says he.
“Of coorse, your reverence,” says Paddy; “an’ ’tis a rock of sense I’m towld you are.”