“No,” says Saint Pathrick, laughin’. “Nick Brakespeare, I mane—the same indeveedual I was tellin’ you about.”
“I beg your reverence’s pardon,” says Paddy, “an’ I hopes you’ll excuse my ignorance. But you wor goin’ to give me an account of this hot argument you had wud the bla’guard whin I put in my spoke.”
Begor, Saint Pathrick dhrew in his horns thin, an’ fearin’ Paddy might think they wor in the habit of squabblin’ in heaven, he says, “Of coorse, I meant only a frindly discussion.”
“An’ what was the frindly discussion about?” axes Paddy.
“About this bull of his,” says Saint Pathrick.
“The mischief choke himself an’ his cattle!” says Paddy.
“Begor,” says Saint Pathrick, “’twas choked the poor man was, sure enough.”
“More power to the man that choked him!” says Paddy. “I hopes ye canonised him.”
“’Twasn’t a man at all,” says Saint Pathrick.
“A faymale, perhaps?” says Paddy.