Larry cared not, provided they had a son to inherit the “half acre.” This was the burthen of his wishes, for in all their altercations, his closing observation usually was—“well, but what's to become of the half acre?”
“What's to become of the half acre? Arrah what do I care for the half acre? It's not that you ought to be thinkin' of, but the dismal poor house we have, wid not the laugh or schreech of a single pastiah (* child) in it from year's end to year's end.”
“Well, Sheelah?—”
“Well, yourself, Larry? To the diouol I pitch your half acre, man.”
“To the diouol you—pitch—What do you fly at me for?”
“Who's flyin' at you? They'd have little tow on their rock that 'ud fly at you.”
“You are flyin' at me; an' only you have a hard face, you wouldn't do it.”
“A hard face! Indeed it's well come over wid us, to be tould that by the likes o' you! ha!”
“No matther for that! You had betther keep a soft tongue in your head, an' a civil one, in the mane time. Why did the divil timpt you to take a fancy to me at all?”
“That's it. Throw the grah an' love I once had for you in my teeth, now. It's a manly thing for you to do, an' you may be proud, of it. Dear knows, it would be betther for me I had fell in consate wid any face but yours.”