“Di ye remember Shemus McGreal?” says I.
“Is it Shemus, the whipper, at Killcrogher?” says she.
“The very same; and here he is.”
With that she blessed herself—“Holy Moses!” says she, “but ye’re grown! Arrah, step in, an’ for ould times we’ll have a flash of lightnin’.”
In we turns into the sign of St. Patrick, and calls for half-a-pint. I tould her all the news, and all about what had brought us from the ould country over here.
“Ah, Shemus,” says Biddy, “myself would travel ten mile to sarve a dog that was iver at Killcrogher—and ye have made no speed? Och, hone, an’ more’s the pity!”
So I ups and tells her the rason we were fairly batin’—all because we couldn’t find out an heiress, good nor bad.
“Oh, saver of the bog!” says she, “if ye’es only had the luck to have fallen into company with Miss Figgins!”
“And who’s Miss Figgins?” says I.
“She’s the only child of ould Figgins of Puddin’ Lane, the richest grocer in the city, an’ that’s a big word.”