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'Twill be worth lookin' at to see th' ladies fr'm th' stock yards r-rushin' into some wretched home down in Peerary avenue, grabbin' th' misthress iv th' house be th' shouldhers an' makin' her change her onhealthy silk dhress f'r a pink wrapper, shovelin' in a little ashes to sprinkle on th' flure, breakin' th' furniture an' rollin' th' baby in th' coal box.
He's young eneuch for ony mischeef; but Black Geordie. What on earth gars him gang stravaguin' aboot upo' that deevil? An' sae I'm thinkin' wi' his maister. 'Did ye iver see yer father, Shargar? 'Na. Nor I dinna want to see 'im. I'm upo' my mither's side. But that's naething to the pint. A' that I want o' you 's to lat me come hame at nicht, an' lie upo' the flure here.
"'Bout halfway 'long ther third story, I reckon; must be jist b'low whar ye are thet I stuck my fut down an openin'. Reckon 't was 'nother fireplace, like thet one on ther first flure." I lowered myself silently, and felt along the stones until I located the opening, and roughly measured its dimensions.
"Divvle a shmell of the baste can I see, and me back from furlough-leaf for minnuts. Has the schamer done the two-shtep widout anny flure, as Oi've always foretould? Is ut atin' his vegetables by the roots he now is in the bone-orchard, and me owing the poor bhoy foive shillin'? Where is he?"
"Why, thin, that's not so bad, any how what's your name?" "Dick, sir." "Now, Dick, ma bouchal, isn't it true that you can dance a horn-pipe?" "Yes, sir." "Here, Larry Brady, take the door off the hinges, an' lay it down on the flure, till Dick Malone dances the Humors of Glynn: silence, boys, not a word; but just keep lookin' an."
Begor, while he was spakin' he seen the hape o' guineas in the middle of the flure growing littler and littler every minit; and at last they wor disappearing, for all the world like corn in the hopper of a mill.
"Why, sure, they wouldn't sting any one that won't meddle wid them," replied the mother in a kind of alarm. "The sorra pin they care, mother don't come near them; I'll be in, by an' by. Where's my father?" "He's in the house, an' wants you to answer Mrs. Fogarty, statin' feder you'll take a month's larnin' on the flure or not."
Th' soord wint into him, an' he sunk down to th' flure; an' they had to carry him off. Well, sir, Hogan was that proud ye cudden't hold him f'r th' rest iv th' night. He wint around ivrywhere stickin' people an' soakin' thim with pothry. He's a gr-reat pote is this here Hogan, an' a gr-reat fighter. He done thim all at both; but, like me ol' frind Jawn L., he come to th' end.
Oh, patther an' ave you dirty bosthoon blessed angels and holy marthyrs! kneelin' there in the middle o' the flure as if nothing happened look down on me this day, a poor vartuous dissolute woman! Oh, you disgrace to me and all belonging to you, and is it the impidence to ask my blessin' you have, when it's a whippin' at the cart's tail you ought to get, you shameless scapegrace?"
'Is ye'er name Hill? says th' la-ad. 'It is not, says Hinnissy. 'I tol' ye I'm a Dimmycrat; an', he says, 'I'll have no man call me out iv me name. Hinnissy was f'r rollin' him on th' flure there an' thin f'r an insult, but I flagged a polisman. 'Is ye'er name Sullivan? says I. 'It is, says he. 'Roscommon? says I, fr'm th' way he spoke. 'Sure ye're right, he says.
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