"'Faix, nothin' at all, I b'lieve,' sez the squireen. 'Whin did ye l'ave home, Misther Sullivan?' sez he.
"'Delaney, av ye pl'ase.'
"'Blur an' agars!' sez the ould man, 'don't I know that, Misther Delaney Sullivan?'
"'Well,' sez Tim to hisself, ''tis no matther. Any way, I'll be kilt an' transported, whin Masther Maurice comes. Sure, if he will parsist in callin' me Sullivan, 'tisn't good manners to conthradict him.'
"'An' how did ye l'ave the family?' sez the squireen.
"'Well an' hearty,' sez Tim; 'wid no sarious disordher, barrin' the loss of a suckin' pig wid the maisles.'
"'A suckin' pig in the family!' sez the ould man. 'A suckin' pig, did ye say? Sure, thim's not human.'
"'Och! what'll I be sayin' wid the grate blisther on my tongue? Sure, tworn't any pig at all, at all. 'Twas the babby wid the shmallpox.'
"'The shmallpox!' shrieks the squireen. 'Oh, be aff wid ye! Don't come a near me! I'm frikened to death a'ready!'
"'Millia murther!' sez Tim. 'I'll be beside myself prisintly. I don't mane the shmallpox, nor the childher. Where 'u'd they come from, I'd like to know? But the docther—no, I don't mane that—the masther—no, not the masther—the weeny. Arrah, botherashin to me, I'd be obleeged to ye if ye'd tell me what I mane; for, 'deed an' 'deed, the beauty of the young lady has put the comether on my sinses enthirely!'