“What the h—— is keepin' him at all?” inquired one of Dolan's sons.
“Look at him,” said Traynor, “comin' in out of the garden; how much afeard he is! keepin' the whiskey in a phatie ridge—an' I'd kiss the book that he brought that bottle out in his pocket, instead of diggin' it up out o' the garden.”
Whatever Brady's usual habits of christening his poteen might have been, that which he now placed before them was good. He laid the bottle on a little deal table with cross legs, and along with it a small drinking glass fixed in a bit of flat circular wood, as a substitute for the original bottom, which had been broken. They now entered upon the point, in question, without further delay.
“Come, Tim,” said Coogan, “you're the ouldest man, and must spake first.”
“Troth, man,” replied Dolan, “beggin' your pardon, I'll dhrink first—healths apiece, your sowl; success boys—glory to ourselves, and confusion to the Scanlon boys, any way.”
“And maybe,” observed Connell, “'tis we that didn't lick them well in the last fair—they're not able to meet the Findramore birds even on their own walk.”
“Well, boys,” said Delany, “about the masther? Our childre will grow up like bullockeens (* little bullocks) widout knowing a ha'porth; and larning, you see, is a burdyen that's asy carried.”
“Ay,” observed O'Neil, “as Solvester Maguire, the poet, used to say—
'Labor for larnin, before you grow ould,
For larnin' is better nor riches nor gould;
Riches an' gould they may vanquish away,
But larnin' alone it will never decay.'”
“Success, Owen! Why, you might put down the pot and warm an air to it,” said Murphy.