“'Mick,' says he; 'an oysther's house is his castle.'
“'Castle I' says I; 'is it a castle?—two shells, with a little face in the middle o' them, a castle?—Thin what's my cabin below but a palace?'
“'A pig's palace, it is, Mick,' says he.
“'Musha! bad luck thin,' says 1, 'to every bit of you—'
“'Ah! Mick,' says he, interrupting me, 'if I was half your size, I'd bate you blue, so I would.—You're a dirty cur, and so was your father before you.'
“'Say that again,' says I; 'say my father was a cur, sir, again, and I'd be obliged to you:—just say it now, and see how soon I'll break every bone in your skin.'
“'Bone!' says he; 'sorrow the bit of bone is in me at all!' says he.—'Do you know anything of anatomy, Mick?'
“'An atomy!—that's a thing smaller than a mite, isn't it?'
“'Arrah! no, man: don't you know what nerves and muscles manes?'
“'Nerves meeself knows little about; but is it muscles? Och! thin, didn't I get a bag-full below on the beach, this day se'nnight? Tell me, sir, if you plaze,—is a muscle any relation to your honour?'