“Whist, sir,” replied the fellow, “don't curse anything that God—blessed be his name—has made; it's not right, it's sinful.”
“But why was I served with two salt herrings, I ask again?”
“Why wor you sarved with them?—Why, wasn't it what we had ourselves?”
“Was I not promised venison?”
“Who promised it to you?”
“That female waiter of yours.”
“Peggy Moylan? Well, then, I tell you the fau't wasn't hers. We had a party o' gintlemen out here last week, and the sorra drop of it they left behind them. Devil a drop of venison there is in the house now. You're an Englishman, at any rate, sir, I think by your discourse?”
“Was I not promised part of a fat buck from the demesne adjoining, and where is it? I thought I was to have fish, flesh, and fowl.”
“Well, and haven't you fish.” replied the fellow. “What do you call them!” he added, pointing to the herrings; “an' as to a fat buck, faith, it isn't part of one, but a whole one you have. What do you call that.” He lifted an old battered tin cover, and discovered a rabbit, gathered up as if it were in the act of starting for its burrow. “You see, Peggy, sir, always keeps her word; for it was a buck rabbit she meant. Well, now, there's the fish and the flesh; and here,” he proceeded, uncovering another dish, “is the fowl.”