“You ought to be a good workman by this time; you first lamed your thrade, an' thin you put in your apprenticeship—ha, ha, ha!”
“Faith, an' Rouser I can promise you a merry end, my beatity; you'll be the only man that'll dance at your own funeral; an' I'll tell you what, Rouser, it'll be like an egg-hornpipe, wid your eyes covered. That's what I call an active death, avouchal!”
“Faith, an' if you wor a priest, Dandy, you'd never die with your face to the congregation. You'll be a rope-dancer yourself yet; only this, Dandy, that you'll be undher the rope instead of over it, so good night.”
“Rouser,” exclaimed the other. “Rousin Redhead!”
“Go home,” replied the Rouser. “Good night, I say; you've thravelled a great deal too far for an ignorant man like me to stand any chance wid you. Your tongue's lighter than your hands (In Ireland, to be light—handed signifies to be a thief) even, and that's payin' it a high compliment.”
“Divil sweep you, Brien,” said Dandy, “you'd beat the divil an' Docthor Fosther, Good night again!”
“Oh, ma bannaght laht, I say.”
And they accordingly parted.
“Now,” said Ned, “what's to be done Dandy? As sure as gun's iron, this limb of hell will take away the Bodagh's daughter, if we don't do something to prevent it.”
“I'm not puttin' it past him,” returned his companion, “but how to prevent it is the thing. He has the boys all on his side, barrin' yourself and me, an' a few more.”