“'Mick,' says he; 'was it in the bay yourself saw the mermaid?'
“'Faith! and it was,' says I.
“'Just four years ago,' says he, 'Mick?'
“'Just,' says I; 'come St. Breedien's day; for it was the very week Jimmy Gorman was drowned, so it was: his wife married Tim Carroll, tin months after his wake,—for we waked Jimmy, though he wasn't at home, and drank long life to our absent friend, in the pitcher o' pothien he left in the cupboard,—so we did:—and she has now three children, by Tim; and Maurien, the little one, is two months ould, barring a week, or thereaway; and three nines is twinty-siven, and tin is tin more,—that's thirty-siven, and three months betuxt and betune each o' the children, makes nine more, that's forty-six: thin there's Maurien, she's two months ould, as I said; so that, taking them together, there's forty-eight months, one up or one down, and that many months is four years:—so that, by the rules of multiplication and population, Jimmy's dead four years—don't you see?'
“'Arrah! don't be preaching,' says he; 'sure, meeself knew Jimmy well.'
“'Ah! and is it yourself?' says I; 'and was he on visiting terms wid ye?'
“'I knew him better than ever you did in your life, Mick,' says he.
“'Not a bit of it,' says I; 'did you ever spend your money wid him, like meeself, at the sheebeen-house?—or at the pattarn there above, with the penny-whiff woman? Did you ever once trate him to a glass o' whiskey, sir?' says I;—'not yourself, in starch.'
“'Mick,' says he, 'Jimmy and I lay in one bed for seven months.'
“'In one bed!'