“Good Heavens!” said the owner of the mansion to his lady, “what has happened to John Smith, my dear? Is he dead?”
“Dead!” said his lady, going in much alarm to the drawing-room window: “I protest I fear so, Frank. He is evidently dead! For God's sake go down and see what has befallen him.”
Her husband went hastily to the hall-door, where he met Peter with his burden.
“In the name of Heaven, what has happened, Connell?—what is the matter with John? Is he living or dead?”
“First, plase your honor, as I have him on my shouldhers, will you tell me where his bed is?” replied Peter. “I may as well lave him snug, as my hand's in, poor fellow. The devil's bad head he has, your honor. Faith, it's a burnin' shame, so it is, an' nothin' else—to be able to bear so little!”
The lady, children, and servants, were now all assembled about the dead footman, who hung, in the mean time, very quietly round Peter's neck.
“Gracious Heaven! Connell, is the man dead?” she inquired.
“Faith, thin, he is, ma'am,—for a while, any how; but, upon my credit, it's a burnin' shame, so it is,”—
“The man is drunk, my dear,” said her husband—“he's only drunk.”
“—a burnin' shame, so it is—to be able to bear no more nor about six glasses, an' the whiskey good, too. Will you ordher one o' thim to show me his bed, ma'am, if you plase,” continued Peter, “while he's an me? It'll save throuble.”