“Nancy, get us a glass—oh, here it is! Thin if it be, it's a wrong enthry in the Journal.”
“Here's your health, Masther!—Not forgetting you, Mrs. O'Flaherty. No, indeed, thin it's not in the Journal, but an oath I'm goin' to take against liquor.”
“Nothin' is asier to post than it is. We must enter it it undher the head of—let me see!—it must go in the spirit account, undher the head of Profit an' Loss, Your good health, Mr. Connell!—Nancy, I dhrink ta your improvement in imperturbability! Yes, it must be enthered undher the”——
“Faix, undher the rose, I think,” observed Pether; “don't you know the smack, of it? You see since I took to it, I like the smell o' what I used to squeeze out o' the barley myself, long ago. Mr. O'Flaherty, I only want you to dhraw up an oath against liquor for me; but it's not for the books, good or bad. I promised to Father Mulcahy, that I'd do it. It's regardin' my poor Ellish's sowl in purgatory.”
“Nancy, hand me a slate an' cutter. Faith, the same's a provident resolution; but how is it an' purgatory concatenated?”
“The priest, you see, won't go an wid the masses for her till I take the oath.”
“That's but wake logic, if you ped him for thim.”
“Faix, an' I did—an' well, too;—but about the oath? Have you the pencil?”
“I have; jist lave the thing to me.”
“Asy, Masther—you don't undherstand it yit. Put down two tumblers for me at home.”