“Fie, fie, Paddy,” says Saint Pathrick. “Come, guess again.”
“Ah, I’m a poor hand at guessin’,” says Paddy.
“Well, ’twas a blue-bottle,” says St. Pathrick.
“An’ was it thryin’ to swallow the bottle an’ all he was?” says Paddy. “He must have been ‘a hard case.’”
Begor, Saint Pathrick burst out laughin’, an’ says he, “You’ll make your mark here, Paddy, I have no doubt.”
“I’ll make my mark on them that slights your reverence, believe me,” says Paddy.
“Hush!” says Saint Pathrick, puttin’ his finger on his lips an’ lookin’ very solemn an’ business-like. “Here comes Saint Pether,” he whispers, rattlin’ the kays to show he was mindin’ his duties. “He looks in good-humour too; so it’s in luck you are.”
“I hope so, at any rate,” says Paddy; “for the clouds is very damp, an’ I’m throubled greatly wud the rheumatics.”
“Well, Pathrick,” says Saint Pether, comin’ up to the gates—Paddy Power could just get a sighth of the pair inside through the bars of the wicket—“how goes the enemy? Have you had a hard day of it, my son?”
“A very hard mornin’,” says Saint Pathrick. “They wor flockin’ here as thick as flies at cock-crow—I mane,” says he, gettin’ very red in the face, for he was in dhread he was afther puttin’ his fut in it wud Saint Pether, “I mane just at daybreak.”