“Why, tare alive, Pether, is it in bed you are at this hour of the day?”
“Eh? Who's that—who's that? oh!”
“Why thin, the sarra lie undher you, is that the way wid you?”
“Oh!—oh! Eh? Is that Condy?”
“All that's to the fore of him. What's asthray wid you man alive?”
“Throth, Condy, I don't know, rightly. I went out, wantin' my coat, about a week ago, an' got cowld in the small o' the back; I've a pain in it ever since. Be sittin'.”
“Is your heart safe? You have no smotherin' or anything upon it?”
“Why thin, thank goodness, no; it's all about my back an' my inches.”
“Divil a thing it is but a complaint they call an alloverness ails you, you shkaimer o' the world wide. 'Tis the oil o' the hazel, or a rubbin' down wid an oak towel you want. Get up, I say, or, by this an' by that, I'll flail you widin an inch o' your life.”
“Is it beside yourself you are, Condy?”