“It’s sthrange,” says Saint Pether, in a dhramey kind of a way, “but I’ve noticed meself that there’s often a great rush of people in the airly mornin’; often I don’t know whether it’s on my head or my heels I do be standin’ wud the noise they kicks up outside, elbowin’ wan another, an’ bawlin’ at me as if it was hard of hearin’ I was.”
“How did the match go?” says Saint Pathrick, aiger to divart Saint Pether’s mind from his throubles.
“Grand!” says Saint Pether, brightenin’ up. “Hurlin’ is a great game. It takes all the stiffness out of my ould joints. But who’s that outside?” catchin’ sighth of Paddy Power.
“A poor fellow from Ireland,” says Saint Pathrick.
“I dunno how we’re to find room for all these Irishmen,” says Saint Pether, scratchin’ his head. “’Twas only last week I gev ordhers to have a new wing added to the Irish mansion, an’ begor I’m towld to-day that ’tis chock full already. But of coorse we must find room for the poor sowls. Did this chap come viâ Purgathory?” say he.
“No,” says Saint Pathrick. “They sint him up direct.”
“Who is he?” says Saint Pether.
“His name is Paddy Power,” says St. Pathrick. “He seems a dacent sort of craychur.”
“Where’s he from?” axes Saint Pether.
“The Parish of Portlaw,” says Saint Pathrick.