“Tipsy! Bud-a'-age, your honor, I was never seen tipsy in all my life,” said Peter,—“That's a horse of another color, sir, plase your honor.”
The reader must at once perceive that Peter here was only recovering himself from the effects of the injurious impression which his first admission was calculated to produce against him in the mind of his landlord. “Tipsy! No, no, sir; but the rason of it, sir, was this: it bein' my birthday, sir, I merely tuck a sup in the mornin', in honor o' the day. It's altogether a lucky day to me, sir!”
“Why, to be sure, every man's birthday may, probably, be called such—the gift of existence being, I fear, too much undervalued.”
“Bedad, your honor, I don't mane that, at all.”
“Then what do you mean, Peter?”
“Why, sir, you see, it's not that I was entirely born on this day, but partly, sir; I was marrid to Ellish here into the bargain,—one o' the best wives, sir—however, I'll say no more, as she's to the fore herself. But, death alive, sir, sure when we put both conclusions together—myself bein' sich a worthy man, and Ellish such a tip-top wife, who could blame me for smellin' the bottle?—for divil a much more I did—about two glasses, sir—an' so it got up into my head a little when I was wid your honor to-day before.”
“But what is the amount of all this, Peter?”
“Why, sir, you see only I was as I said, Sir—not tipsy, your honor, any way, but seein' things double or so; an' that was, I suppose, what made me offer for the farm double what I intinded. Every body knows, sir, that the 'crathur' gives the big heart to us, any how, your honor.”
“But you know, Peter, we entered into no terms about it. I, therefore, have neither power nor inclination to hold you to the offer you made.”
“Faith, sir, you're not the gintleman to do a shabby turn, nor ever was, nor one o' your family. There's not in all Europe”—