“A particularly good one, I assure you.”
“Now, wouldn't you think it strange that I could give you a dose that 'ud keep you on half a male a day for the next three months.”
“God forbid,” replied Woodward, who, among his other good qualities, was an enormous trencherman,—“God forbid that ever such a dose should go down my throat.”
“Would you think, now,” he proceeded, with a sinister grin that sent his yellow tusk half an inch out of his mouth, “that if a man was jealous of his wife, or a wife of her husband, I couldn't give either o' them a dose that 'ud cure them?”
“Faith, I dare say you could,” replied Woodward; “a dose that would free them from care of all sorts, as well as jealousy.”
“I don't mane that,” said the skeleton; “ha, ha! you're a funny gentleman, and maybe I—but no—I don't mane that; but widout injurin' a hair in either o' their heads.”
“I am not married,” said the other, “but I expect to be soon, and when I am I will pay you well for the knowledge of that herb—for my wife, I mean. Where do you live?”
“In Rathfillan, sir. I'm a well-known man there, and for many a long mile about it.”
“You must be very useful to the country people hereabouts?”
“Ay,” he exclaimed, “you mane to the poor, I suppose, and you're right; but maybe I'm of sarvice to the rich, too. Many a face I save from—I could save from shame, I mane—if I liked, and could get well ped for it, too. Some young, extravagant people that have rich ould fathers do be spakin' to me, too; but thin, you know, I have a sowl to be saved, and am a religious man, I hope, and do my duty as sich, and that every one that has a sowl to be saved, may! Amin, acheernah!