“I mean, are you a Papish?”
“Troth, I oughtn't to say I am, your honor—or at least a very bad one.”
“But you are, a Papish.”
“A kind of one, sir.”
“Curse me, the fellow's humbug-gin' you, sergeant,” said one of the men; “to be sure he's a Papish.”
“To be sure,” replied several of the others—“doesn't he admit he's a Papish?”
“Blow me, if—if—I'll bear this,” replied the sergeant. “I'm a senior off—off—officer conductin' the examination, and I'll suffer no—no—man to intherfare. I must have subor—or—ordination, or I'll know what for. Leave him to me, then, and I'll work him up, never fear. George Johnston isn't the blessed babe to be imposed upon—that's what I say. Come, my good fellow, mark—mark me now. If you let but a quarter of—of—an inch of a lie out of your lips, I you're a dead man. Are you all charged, gentlemen?”
“All charged, sergeant, with loyalty and poteen at any rate; hang the Pope.”
“Shoulder arms—well done. Present arms. Where is—is—this rascal? Oh, yes, here he is. Well, you are there—are you?”
“I'm here, captain.”