“Why, never a one of me can get him to come, sir, he's so much afeard of yer Reverence.”
“Well, Phaddhy, we were once modest and bashful ourselves, and I'm glad to hear that he's afraid of his clargy; but let him be prepared for me on Thursday, and maybe I'll let him know something he never heard before; I'll open his eyes for him.”
“Do you hear that, Briney?” said the father, aside to the son, who knelt at his knee; “you must give up yer hurling and idling now, you see. Thank yer Reverence; thank you, docthor.”
“On Friday, in Barny O'Darby's, alias Barny Butters. Are you there, Barny?”
“All that's left of me is here, sir.”
“Well, Barny, how is the butter trade this season?”
“It's a little on the rise, now, sir: in a, month or so I'm expecting it will be brisk enough. Boney, sir, is doing that much for us anyway.”
“Ay, and, Barny, he'll do more than that for us: God prosper him at all events; I only hope the time's coming, Barny, when every one will be able to eat his own butter, and his own beef, too.”
“God send it, sir.”
“Well, Barny, I didn't hear from your brother Ned these two or three months; what has become of him?”