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Dear fatther' Lawk o' daisy, what ails you, Daddy Maxley? You be as white as a Sunday smock. Be you poisoned again, if you please?" "Worse than that worse!" groaned Maxhey, trembling all over. "Hush! hold your tongue! Give me that letter!
"Whisht!" he exclaimed, with a laugh like an Eclipse, "bad luck to the fatther of it, but I forgot at home along wid the other eleven or stop here it is to the good still," pointing to his naked skin, "an' be my sowl, boys my lard an' gintlemen o' the jury, I mane it's the weavor of this linen that'll stand to us yet. "Gintlemin, I do maintain that there's a great dale to be said for Mat Purcel.
"Mercy on us! but it can't be asses, wench: drive your spe-ad into't again." "'A-s-s-e-t-s. Assets." "Ah! Go an! go an!" "'Now Fatther if you leave a s-h-i-l-l-i-n-g, shilling at Hardie's after this b-l-a-m-e, ble-am your self not me for this is the waie the r-o-g-u-e-s, rogews all bre-ak they go at a d-i-s-t-a-n-c-e, distance first and then at h-o-m-e, whuoame.
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