“'I suppose I don't,' says he; 'for I've but one.'
“'Troth, and that's a thumper thin,' says I, peeping into his little parlour: and there, sure enough, was a pearl big enough to be the making of me, and all the seed and breed of me, past, present, and to come, hanging by a bit of sea-weed round his neck.
“'Do you know what, Mick?' says he; I'm sick o' the world, Mick; and I'm half inclined to give you lave to ate me.'
“'Sir,' says I, taking off my hat, 'I'm much obliged to you for nothing at all. It's meeself manes to ate your honour, with or without lave,—so I do.'
“'Is it yourself, Mick?'
“'Faith! and it is thin,—though I say it; for I'm hungry:—and, after that, I mane to take the big pearl, I see there about your neck.'
“'Mick, you're a reprobate!—Sure, you would'nt be so un-genteel, as to ate a gentleman against his own inclination, would you?'
“'Meeself would thin, and think it no sin, in case the gentleman was a plump little oysther, like your honour.'
“'Then, Mick, I wish you good evening!'
“'Oh, joy!' says I, seeing how he was going to shut himself in; 'it's of no use, sir, to do so:—I've a knife in my pocket, and it's not burglary in this country to break into the house of an oysther.'