Thank you, father—much obliged; you entertain a good opinion of me.”
“Do I, faith? Don't be too sure of that.”
“I've bought her at any rate,” said Hycy—“thirty-five's the figure; but she's a dead bargain at fifty.”
“Bought her!” exclaimed the father; “an' how, in God's name, do you expect to pay for her?”
“By an order on a very excellent, worthy man and gentleman-farmer—ycleped James Burke, Esquire—who has the honor of being father to that ornament of the barony, Hycy Burke, the accomplished. My worthy sire will fork out.”
“If I do, that I may—”
“Silence, poor creature!” said his wife, clapping her hand upon his mouth—“make no rash or vulgar oaths. Surely, Misther Burke—”
“How often did I bid you not to misther me? Holy scrapers, am I to be misthered and pesthered this way, an' my name plane Jemmy Burke!”
“You see, Hycy, the vulgarian will come out,” said his mother. “I say, Misther Burke, are you to see your son worse mounted at the Herringstown Hunt than any other gentleman among them? Have you no pride?
“No, thank God! barin' that I'm an honest man an' no gentleman; an', as for Hycy, Rosha—”