“I wish there was more of ’em your way of thinkin’, Paddy,” says Saint Pathrick, sighin’ deeply.
“An’ do you mane to tell me,” says Paddy, “that any craychur inside there ’ud dar’ to put himself an an aiqual footin’ wud yourself?”
“I do, thin,” says Saint Pathrick; “an’ worse than that,” says he, “there’s some of ’em thinks ’tis very small potatoes I am, in their own mind. I gives you me word, Paddy, that it takes me all my time occasionally to keep my timper wud Saint George an’ Saint Andhrew.”
“Bad luck to ’em both!” said Paddy, intherruptin’ him.
“Whisht!” says Saint Pathrick. “I partly admires your sintiments, but I must tell you there’s no rale ill-will allowed inside here. You’ll feel complately changed wance you gets at the right side of the gate.”
“The divil a change could make me keep quiet,” says Paddy, “if I heard the biggest saint in Paradise say a hard word agen you, or even dar’ to put himself on a par wud you!”
“Oh, Paddy!” says Saint Pathrick, “you mustn’t allow your timper to get the betther of you. ’Tis hard, I know, avic, to sthruggle at times agen your feelin’s, but the laiste said the soonest mended.”
“An’ will I meet Saint George and Saint Andhrew whin I get inside?”
“You will,” says Saint Pathrick; “but you mustn’t disgrace our counthry by makin’ a row wud aither of ’em.”
“I’ll do my best,” says Paddy, “as ’tis yourself that axes me. An’ is there any more of ’em that thrates you wud contimpt?”