“Eh, Paddy?”
“I was br ingin' her a layin' hen, sir, that my mother promised her at mass on Sunday last.”
“Ah, Paddy, you're a game bird, yourself, wid your layin' hens; you're as full o' mischief as an egg's full o' mate—(omnes—ha, ha, ha, ha!)—Silence, boys—what are you laughin' at?—ha, ha, ha!—Paddy, can you spell Nebachodnazure for me?”
“No, sir.”
“No, nor a better scholar, Paddy, could not do that, ma bouchal; but
I'll spell it for you. Silence, boys—whist, all of yez, till I spell
Nebachodnazure for Paddy Magouran. Listen; and you yourself, Paddy, are
one of the letthers:
A turf and a clod spells Nebachod—
A knife and a razure, spells Nebachodnazure—
Three pair of boots and five pair of shoes—
Spells Nebachodnazure, the king of the Jews.'
Now, Paddy, that's spelling Nebachodnazure by the science of Ventilation; but you'll never go that deep, Paddy.”—
“I want to go out, if you plase, sir.”
“Is that the way you ax me, you vagabone?”
“I want to go out, sir,”—(pulling down the fore lock.)
“Yes, that's something dacenter; by the sowl of Newton, that invinted fluxions, if ever you forgot to make a bow again, I'll nog the enthrils out of you—wait till the Pass comes in.”