“Is it me you coaxer? No, faith, I'll wear a pair of winkers, for fraid o' lookin' at them at all! Oh be gorra, no, bally, I'll lave that to the great people. Sure, they say, the divil a differ they make at all.”
“Go off now, Phelim, till I get ready, an' set out to my father. But, Phelim, never breathe a word about him bein' in goal. No one knows it but ourselves—that is, none o' the neighbors.”
“I'll sing dumb,” said Phelim. “Well, binaght lath, a rogarah!* Tell him the thruth—to be game, an' he'll find you an' me sweeled together whin he comes out, plase Goodness.”
* My blessing be with you, you rogue!
Phelim was but a few minutes gone, when the old military cap of Fool Art projected from the little bed-room, which a wicker wall, plastered with mud, divided from the other part of the cabin.
“Is he gone?” said Art.
“You may come out, Art,” said she, “he's gone.”
“Ha!” said Art, triumphantly, “I often tould him, when he vexed me an' pelted me wid snow-balls, that I'd come along sides wid him yet. An' it's not over aither. Fool Art can snore when he's not asleep, an' see wid his eyes shut. Wherroo for Art!”
“But, Art, maybe he intinds to marry the housekeeper afther all?”
“Hi the colic, the colic!
An' ho the colic for Phelim!”