“Paddy Donovan, spake up,” said Larry.
“Spake up!” said Paddy, contemptuously. “Is it for three crowns' worth I'd spake up? The bedstead, Phelim! Bedhu husth, (* hold your tongue) man!”
“Put round the bottle,” said Phelim, “we're dhry here.”
“Thrue enough, Phelim,” said the father. “Paddy, here's towarst you an' yours—nabors—all your healths—young couple! Paddy, give us your hand, man alive! Sure, whether we agree or not, this won't put between us.”
“Throth, it won't, Larry—an' I'm thankful to you. Your health, Larry, an' all your healths! Phelim an' Peggy, success to yez, whether or not! An' now, in regard o' your civility, I will spake up. My proposal is this:—I'll put down guinea for guinea wid you.”
Now we must observe, by the way, that this was said under the firm conviction that neither Phelim nor the father had a guinea in their possession.
“I'll do that same, Paddy,” said Larry; “but I'll lave it to the present company, if you're not bound to put down the first guinea. Nabors, amn't I right?”
“You are right, Larry,” said Burn; “it's but fair that Paddy should put down the first.”
“Molly, achora,” said Donovan to the wife, who, by the way, was engaged in preparing the little feast usual on such occasions—“Molly, achora, give me that ould glove you have in your pocket.”
She immediately handed him an old shammy glove, tied up into a hard knot, which he felt some difficulty in unloosing.