“Fwhy, thin, 'tis sthrange it is, that the same custom is wit us in Ireland beyant that is here: fwhor whinever a thraveller is axed in, he always brings fwhat he doesn't ate along wit him. An sure enough it's the same here amongst yez,” added he, packing up the bread and beef as he spoke, “but Gad bliss the custom, any how, fwhor it's a good one!”
When he had secured the provender, and was ready to resume his journey, he began to yawn, and to exhibit the most unequivocal symptoms of fatigue.
“Arrah, sir,” said he to the steward, “you wouldn't have e'er an ould barn that I'd throw myself in fwhor the night? The sarra leg I have to put undher me, now that I've got stiff with the sittin' so lang; that, an' a wishp o' sthraw, to sleep an, an' Gad bliss you!”
“Paddy, I cannot say,” replied the steward; “but I shall ask my master, and if he orders it, you shall have the comfort of a hard floor and clean straw, Paddy—that you shall.”
“Many thanks to you, sir: it's in your face, in thrath, the same gudness an' ginerosity.”
The gentleman, on hearing Phil's request to be permitted a sleeping-place in the barn, was rather surprised at his wretched notion of comfort than at the request itself.
“Certainly, Timmins, let him sleep there,” he replied; “give him sacks and straw enough. I dare say he will feel the privilege a luxury, poor devil, after his fatigue. Give him his breakfast in the morning, Timmins. Good heavens,” he added, “what a singular people! What an amazing progress civilization must make before these Irish can be brought at all near the commonest standard of humanity!”
At this moment Phil, who was determined to back the steward's request, approached them.
“Paddy,” said the gentleman, anticipating him, “I have ordered you sacks and straw in the barn, and your breakfast in the morning before you set out.”
“Thrath,” said Phil, “if there's e'er a stray blissin' goin', depind an it, sir, you'll get it fwhor your hanerable ginerosity to the sthranger. But about the 'slip,' sir—if the misthress herself 'ud shake the whisp o' sthraw fwhor her in the far carner o' the kitchen below, an' see her gettin' her supper, the crathur, before she'd put her to bed, she'd be thrivin' like a salmon, sir, in less than no time; and to ardher the sarwints, sir, if you plase, not to be defraudin' the crathur of the big phaties. Fwhor in regard it cannot spake fwhor itself, sir, it frets as wise as a Christyeen, when it's not honestly thrated.”