Well, wud that the saint began to laugh very hearty, an’ says he—
“Now, it’s a quare thing that every wan of ye that comes from below thinks Saint Pether is on the gates constant. Do you raley think, Paddy,” says he, “that Saint Pether has nothing else to do, nor no way to pass the time except by standin’ here in the cowld from year’s end to year’s end, openin’ the gates of Paradise?”
“Begor,” says Paddy, “that never sthruck me before, sure enough. Of coorse he must have some sort of divarsion to pass the time. An’ might I ax your reverence,” says he, “what your own name is? an’ I hopes you’ll pardon my ignorance.”
“Don’t mintion that,” says the saint; “but I’d rather not tell you my name, just yet at any rate, for a raison of my own.”
“Plaize yourself an’ you’ll plaize me, sir,” says Paddy.
“’Tis a civil-spoken little man you are,” says the saint.
Findin’ the saint was such a nice agreeable man an’ such an iligant discoorser, Paddy thought he’d venture on a few remarks just to dodge the time until some other poor sowl ’ud turn up an’ give him the chance to slip into Paradise unbeknownst—for he knew that wance he got in by hook or by crook they could never have the heart to turn him out of it again. So says he—
“Might I ax what Saint Pether is doin’ just now?”
“He’s at a hurlin’ match,” says the deputy.
“Oh, murdher!” says Paddy, “couldn’t I get a peep at the match while you’re examinin’ the books?”