Pettier himself wouldn't
make a hand of her. Faix, she's a cute one. I palavered her at the
rate of a hunt, an' she ped me back in my own coin, with dacent
intherest--but no whiskey!--Now to take a rise out o' Pettier. Jist sit
where ye are, till I come back."
He left them enjoying the intended "spree," and went back to Ellish.
"Well, I'm sure, Ellish, if any one had tuck their book oath that you'd
refuse my father's son such a thrifle, I wouldn't believe them. It's not
wid Pettier's knowledge you do it, I'll be bound. But bad as you thrated
us, sure we must see how the poor fellow is, at an rate."
As he spoke, and before Ellish had time to prevent him, he pressed into
the room where Peter lay.
"Why, tare alive, Pether, is it in bed you are at this hour of the day?"
"Eh? Who's that--who's that? oh!"
"Why thin, the sarra lie undher you, is that the way wid you?"
"Oh!--oh! Eh? Is that Condy?"
"All that's to the fore of him. What's asthray wid you man alive?"
"Throth, Condy, I don't know, rightly. I went out, wantin' my coat,
about a week ago, an' got cowld in the small o' the back; I've a pain in
it ever since. Be sittin'."
"Is your heart safe? You have no smotherin' or anything upon it?"
"Why thin, thank goodness, no; it's all about my back an' my inches.
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