Defendant. ‘Then, docthor, by vartue of your oath answer this: Did you kill my wife?’
Doctor. ‘No; she died of her illness.’
Defendant (to the bench). ‘Your worship, see this. You heard him tell our bargain. It was to kill or cure. By vartue of his oath, he done neither!—and he axes the fee!’
The verdict, however, went against poor Pat, notwithstanding his ingenuity.
Something like the following story has been told before in these pages. It will, however, bear repetition. Mr F——, Clerk of the Crown for Limerick, was over six feet high and stout in proportion. He was the dread of the cabmen, and if their horses could have spoken, they would not have blessed him.
One day when driving in the outlets of Dublin, they came to a long and steep hill. Cabby got down, and walking alongside the cab, looked significantly in at the windows. ‘His honour’ knew very well what he meant; but the day was hot, and he was lazy and fat, and had no notion of taking the hint and getting out to ease the horse while ‘larding the lean earth’ himself. At last Paddy changed his tactics. Making a rush at the cab, he suddenly opened the door, and then slammed it to with a tremendous bang.
‘What’s that for?’ roared Mr F——, startled at the man’s violence and the loud report.
‘Whist, yer honour! Don’t say a word!’ whispered Paddy, putting his finger on his lips.
‘But what do you mean, sirrah?’ cried the fare.
‘Arrah, can’t ye hush, sir? Spake low now—do. Sure, ’tis letting on I am to the little mare that your honour’s got out to walk. Don’t let her hear you, and the craythur ’ll have more heart to face the hill if she thinks you’re not inside, and that ’tis only the cab that’s throubling her.’