“Why, you poor crathur,” said his antagonist, “if I'd choose to let myself out, I could make a hare of you in no time entirely.”
“And an ass of yourself,” retorted the other: “but you may save yourself the throuble in regard of the last, for your frinds know you to be an ass ever since they remimber you. You have them here, man alive, the auricles,” and he pointed to his ears.
“Hut! get out wid you, you poor Jamaica-headed castigator, you; sure you never had more nor a thimbleful o' sinse on any subject.”
“Faith, an' the thimble that measured yours was a tailor's, one widout a bottom in it, an' good measure you got, you miserable flagellator! what are you but a nux vomica? A fit of the ague's a thrifle compared to your asinity.”
The “boys” were delighted at this encounter, and utterly forgetful of the pacific occasion on which they had assembled, began to pit them against each other with great glee.
“That's a hard hit, Misther Costigan; but you won't let it pass, any how.”
“The ague an' you are ould acquaintances,” retorted Costigan; “whenever a skrimmage takes place, you're sure to resave a visit from it.”
“Why, I'm not such a hare as yourself,” replied his rival, “nor such a great hand at batin' the absent—ha, ha, ha!”
“Bravo, Misther Connell—that's a leveller; come, Misther Costigan, bedad, if you don't answer that you're bate.”
“By this and by that, man alive, if you don't mend your manners, maybe I'd make it betther for you to be absent also. You'll only put me to the throuble of men din' them for you.”