“Well, not many,” says Saint Pathrick. “An’ indeed,” says he, “’tis only an odd day we meets at all; an’ I can tell you I’m not a bad hand at takin’ my own part—but there’s wan fellow,” says he, “that breaks my giddawn intirely.”
“An’ who is he? the bla’guard!” says Paddy.
“He’s an uncanonised craychur named Brakespeare,” says Saint Pathrick.
“A wondher you’d be seen talkin’ to the likes of him!” says Paddy; “an’ who is he at all?”
“Did you never hear tell of him?” says Saint Pathrick.
“Never,” says Paddy.
“Well,” says Saint Pathrick, “he made the worst bull——”
“Thin,” says Paddy, interruptin’ him in hot haste, “he’s wan of ourselves—more shame for him! Oh, wait till I gets a grip of him by the scruff of the neck!”
“Whisht! I tell you!” says Saint Pathrick. “Perhaps ’tis committin’ a vaynial sin you are now, an’ if that wor to come to Saint Pether’s ears, maybe he’d clap twinty years of Limbo on to you—for he’s a hard man sometimes, especially if he hears of any one losin’ his timper, or getting impatient at the gates. An’ moreover,” says Saint Pathrick, “himself an’ this Brakespeare are as thick as thieves, for they both sat in the same chair below. I had a hot argument wud Nick yesterday.”
“Ould Nick, is it?” says Paddy.