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Often and sadly did he speak to his friends at the Kitchen of his resemblance to King Lear in the plee of his having a thankless choild, bedad of his being a pore worn-out, lonely old man, dthriven to dthrinking by ingratitude, and seeking to dthrown his sorrows in punch.

"Oh, blazes!" said Laurence, "what is it you're after? I ain't good at private conferences at three in the morning. We're all out, and isn't that enough for ye?" "I have been dreadfully annoyed to-night," said Phineas, "and I wished to speak to you about it." "Bedad, Finn, my boy, and there are a good many of us are annoyed; eh, Barrington?"

"Bedad, and it's him has the foine nose for turkey!" said Blaney, a good-natured, jovial Irishman. "Yes, or for pay-day, more like," said Keefe, a black-browed, villainous fellow countryman of Blaney's and, strange to say, his great friend. Big Sandy McNaughton, a Canadian Highlander from Glengarry, rose up in wrath.

"Have you come to insult him in his absence?" "Absence?" said the soldier, still smiling blandly over his stock. "That's the very point I wanted to get at. He is away in Africa at the diamond fields. A wonderful interprise, conducted with remarkable energy, but also with remarkable rashness, sir yes, bedad, inexcusable rashness."

"I'm afeared to shoot so close lest I might singe yer hair, but I can't stand on ceremony, me dears," he said, addressing the wolves, as he drew his pistol. "Bedad, I must go and stop that wastin' o' powdher!" The next moment something suddenly sang aloud in the wilderness a wild, strange, sibilant strain.

Shure he knows all about the red-coats, case he's an arthillery man himself, and that's the way he's found out his gran' combustible." "An artilleryman?" said John. "He told me he was a writer for the press." "Bedad, thin, he's mistaken himself intirely; for he tould me with his own mouth. And I'll show you the thing he sowld me as is to do it.

I think it is now near fifty years ago since he hanged himself." "'Tis said, sir, that this account comes from one of his own relations; but there's another account, sir, of the Shan-dhinne-dhuv that I don't believe a word of." "Another what is that, Bandy?" "O, bedad, sir," replied Bandy, "it's more than I could venture to tell you here." "Come, come out with it." Mrs.

They scoured the country for him next day, and, bedad, they found him, stiff dead, sitting against a fence. There's where they found him. They brought him on a door to his mother. Oh, it was a sad thing to see to see her cry and hear her mourn!" "And what more?" I asked. "That's all. He was waked and buried, and that's what he got for playing cards!

Paddy began to mumble to himself, "Bedad, he was under the bed fast enough without offering her a stool by the fire and a small drop of drink which would be no more than decent with him so fond of her. I am not knowing the ways of these people." In despair of his long tongue I made try to change the talking. "We are off for London, Paddy. How are you for it?" "London, is it?" said he warily.

"And bedad, ma'am, it's well off you are, if you've the feel of nothin' worse in them," said the querulous voice of old Peter Sheridan, whose acquaintances describe him as being "terrible gathered up with the rheumatism this great while," so great, in fact, that everybody except himself has by this time become accustomed to his condition.