“Get on—out, you ould sinner o' perdition—to blazes wid you; life's sweet you ould 'shandina—what a purty—urty way you tuk of sweetenin' it for him. I tell—ell you, Bil—lilly Bradly, that you'll never die on your bed for that night's wo—ork.”
“And even if I don't, Ned, you won't have my account to answer for.”
“An' mighty glad I am of it: my own—own's bad enough, God knows, an' for the mat—matther o' that—here's God pardon us all, barrin' that ould cardin' sinner—amin, acheerna villish, this night! Boys, I'll sing-yes a song.”
“Aisy, Ned,” said one or two of them, “bad as it was, let us hear Billy Bradly's story out.”
“Well,” proceeded Billy, “when the ticklin' was over, we took the scraws off of the grave, lined wid thorns as it was, and laid the procthor, naked and bleedin'—scarified into gris-kins—”
“Let me at—at him, the ould cardin' mur—urdherer; plain murdher's daicency compared to that. Don't hould me, Dick; if I was sworn ten times over, I'll bate the divil's taptoo on his ould carkage.”
“Be aisy, Ned—be aisy now, don't disturb the company—sure you wouldn't rise your hand to an ould man like Billy Bradly. Be quiet.”
—“Scarified into griskins as he was,” proceeded Bradly looking at Ned with a grin of contempt—“ay, indeed, snug and cosily we laid him in his bed of feadhers, and covered him wid thin scraws for fear he'd catch could—he! he! he! That's the way we treated the procthors in our day. I think I desarve a drink now!”
Drinking was now resumed with more vigor, and the proceedings of the night were once more discussed.
“It was a badly-managed business every way,” said one of them, “especially to let M'Carthy escape; however, we'll see him 'igain, and if we can jist lay our eyes upon him in some quiet place, it'll be enough;—what's to be done wid this body till mornin.' It can't be lyin' upon the chairs here all might.”