“I’m afeard not,” says the saint, shakin’ his head. “Besides,” says he, “I think the fun is nearly over by this time.”
“Is there often a hurlin’ match here?” axes Paddy.
“Wance a year,” says the saint. “You see,” says he, pointin’ over his showldher wud his thumb, “they have all nationalities in here, and they plays the game of aich nation on aich pathron saint’s day, if you undherstand me.”
“I do,” says Paddy. “An’ sure enough ’twas Saint Pathrick’s Day in the mornin’ whin I started from Portlaw, an’ the last thing I did—of coorse before tellin’ my sins—was to dhrink my Pathrick’s pot.”
“More power to you!” says the saint.
“I suppose Saint Pathrick is the umpire to-day?” says Paddy.
“No,” says the saint. “Aich of us, you see, takes our turn at the gates on our own festival days.”
“Holy Moses!” shouts Paddy. “Thin ’tis to Saint Pathrick himself I’ve been talkin’ all this while back. Oh, murdher alive, did I ever think I’d live to see this day!”
Begor, the poor angashore of a man was fairly knocked off his head to discover he was discoorsin’ so fameeliarly wud the great Saint Pathrick, an’ the great saint himself was proud to see what a dale the little man from Portlaw thought of him; but he didn’t let on to Paddy how plaized he was. “Ah!” says he, “sure we’re all on an aiquality here. You’ll be a great saint yourself, maybe, wan of these days.”
“The heavens forbid,” says Paddy, “that I’d dhrame of ever being on an aiquality wud your reverence! Begor, ’tis a joyful man I’d be to be allowed to spake a few words to you wance in a blue moon. Aiquality, inagh!”[52] says he. “Sure what aiquality could there be between the great apostle of Ould Ireland and Paddy Power, general dayler, from Portlaw?”