“Silence there.”—(Buz, buz, buz.)
“Will you meet us on Sathurday, and we'll fight it out clane!”
“Ha-ha-ha! Tim, but you got a big fright, any how: whist, ma bouchal, sure I was only jokin' you; and sorry I'd be to bate your father's son, Tim. Come over, and sit beside myself at the fire here. Get up, Micky Donoghue, you big, burnt-shinn'd spalpeen you, and let the dacent boy sit at the fire.”
“Hulabaloo hoo-hoo-hoo—to go to give me such a welt, only for sitting at the fire, and me brought turf wid me.”
“To-day, Tim?”
“Yes, sir.”
“At dinner time, is id?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Faith, the dacent strain was always in the same family.”—(Buz, buz, buz.)—
“Horns, horns, cock horns: oh, you up'd vrid them, you lifted your fingers—that's a mark, now—hould your face, till I blacken you!”