“Troth he's as stout as e'er a one of us.”
“The Lord continue it to him! I suppose you hard o' this robbery that was done at honest Jemmy Burke's?”
“I did, indeed, an' I was sorry to hear it.”
“A hundre' an' fifty pounds is a terrible loss to anybody in such times.”
“A hundre' an' fifty!” exclaimed M'Mahon—“hut, tut!—no; I thought it was only seventy or eighty. He did not lose so much, did he?”
“So I'm tould.”
“It was two—um—it was two—urn—urn—it was—um—um—it was two hundre' itself,” observed Cavanagh, after he had finished a portion of the operation, and given himself an opportunity of speaking—“it war two hundre' itself, I'm tould, an' that's too much, by a hundre' and ninety-nine pounds nineteen shillings an' eleven pence three fardens, to be robbed of.”
“Troth it is, Gerald,” replied M'Mahon; “but any way there's nothin' but thievin' and robbin' goin'. You didn't hear that we came in for a visit?”
“You!” exclaimed Mrs. Cavanagh—“is it robbed? My goodness, no!”
“Why,” he proceeded, “we'll be able to get over it afore we die, I hope. On ere last night we had two of our fattest geese stolen.”