“No; but, Bartle, I'm obliged to you. You've acted as a friend to me, an' I won't forget it to you.”
“An' I'm so much obliged to you, Connor, that I'll remimber your employin' me in this the longest day I have to live. But, Connor?”
“Well, Bartle.”
“I'd take the sacrament, that, after all, a ring you'll never put on her.”
“And what makes you think so, Bartle?”
“I don't—I do—(hiccup) don't know; but somehow something or another tells it to me that you won't; others is fond of her, I suppose, as well as yourself; and of coorse they'll stand betune you.”
“Ay, but I'm sure of her.”
“But you're not; wait till I see you man and wife, an' thin I'll say so. Here's myself, Bartle, is in love, an' dhough I don't expect ever the girl will or would marry me, be the crass of heaven, no other man will have her. Now, how do you know but you may have some one like me—like me, Connor, to stand against you?”
“Bartle,” said Connor, laughing, “your head's a little moidher'd; give me your hand; whish! the devil take you, man! don't wring my fingers off. Say your prayers, Bartle, an' go to sleep. I say agin I won't forget your kindness to me this night.”
Flanagan had now deposited himself upon his straw bed, and, after having tugged the bedclothes about him, said, in the relaxed, indolent voice of a man about to sleep,