“Faith, he's the boy that knows how to make a Judy of himself any way, Pether,” exclaimed another. “The divil a hapurt'h asier nor to give these Quality the bag to hould, so there isn't. An' they think themselves so cute, too!”
“Augh!” said a third, “couldn't a man find the soft side o' them as asy as make out the way to' his own nose, widout being led to it. Divil a sin it is to do them, any way. Sure, he thinks we wor tooth an' nail at the meadow all day; an' me thought I'd never recover it, to see Pether here—the rise he tuck out of him! Ha, ha, ha—och, och, murdher, oh!”
“Faith,” exclaimed Connor, “'twas good, you see, to help the poor scholar; only for it we couldn't get shkamin' the half-crown out of him. I think we ought to give the crathur half of it, an' him so sick: he'll be wantin' it worse nor ourselves.”
“Oh, be Gorra, he's fairly entitled to that. I vote him fifteen pince.”
“Surely!” they exclaimed unanimously. “Tundher-an'-turf! wasn't he the manes of gettin' it for us?”
“Jemmy, a bouchal,” said Connor, across the ditch to M'Evoy, “are you sleepin'?”
“Sleepin'! Oh, no,” replied Jemmy; “I'd give the wide world for one wink of asy sleep.”
“Well, aroon, here's fifteen pince for you, that we skham—Will I tell him how we cot it?”
“No, don't,” replied his neighbors; “the boy's given to devotion, and maybe might scruple to take it.”
“Here's fifteen pince, avourneen, on the shovel, that we're givin' you for God's sake. If you over * this, won't you offer up a prayer for us? Won't you, avick?”