“You're right,” said the Bodagh, aside to his wife; “he's sartinly deranged. Fardorougha,” he added, “have you lost any money lately?”
“I'm losin' every day,” said the other; “I'm broke assistin' them that won't thank me, let alone paying me as they ought.”
“Then you have lost nothing more than usual?”
“If I didn't, I tell you there's a good chance of losin' it before me;—can a man call any money of his safe that's in another man's pocket?”
“An' so you've come to propose a marriage between your son and my daughter, yet you lost no money, an' you're not mad!”
“Divil a morsel o' me is mad—but you'll be so if you refuse to let this match go an.”
“Out wid him—a shan roghara,” shouted Mrs. O'Brien, in a state of most dignified offence; “Damho orth, you ould knave! is it the son of a miser that has fleeced an' robbed the whole counthry side that we 'ud let our daughther, that resaved the finish to her edication in a Dubling boardin' school, marry wid?—Vic na hoiah this day!”
“You had no sich scruple yourself, ma'am,” replied the bitter usurer, “when you bounced at the son of the ould Bodagh Buie, an' every one knows what he was.”
“He!” said the good woman; “an' is it runnin' up comparishments betuxt yourself an' him you are afther? Why, Saint Peter wouldn't thrive on your money, you nager.”
“Maybe Saint Pethur thruv on worse—but havn't you thruv as well on the Bodagh's, as if it had been honestly come by? I defy you an' the world both—to say that ever I tuck a penny from any one, more than my right. Lay that to the mimory of the ould Bodagh, an' see if it'll fit. It's no light guinea, any how.”