‘Well, ma’am, what can I do for you?’ ‘Could you’—in a faint voice—‘could you get me a glass of water?’ ‘To be sure, ma’am; with all the pleasure in life.’ ‘And guard!’—still fainter—‘I’d—hem—I’d—a—like it hot.’ ‘_Hot_ water! Oh, all right, ma’am! Why not, if it’s plazing to you?’ ‘With a lump of sugar, guard, if you please.’ ‘By all manner of means, ma’am.’ ‘And—and—guard dear’—as the man was turning to go away—‘a small squeeze of lemon, and a little—just a thimbleful—of spirits through it.’ ‘Och, isn’t that _punch_!’ shouted the guard. ‘Where was the good of beating about the bush? Couldn’t you have asked out for a tumbler of punch at once, ma’am, like a man!’ Another favourite story was of a trial at quarter-sessions in Mayo, which developed some of the ingenious resources of Paddy when he chooses to exercise his talent in an endeavour not to pay. A doctor had summoned a man for the sum of one guinea, due for attendance on the man’s wife. The _medico_ proved his case, and was about to retire triumphant, when the defendant humbly begged leave to ask him a few questions. Permission was granted, and the following dialogue took place. _Defendant._ ‘Docthor, you remember when I called on you?’ _Doctor._ ‘I do.’ _Defendant._ ‘What did I say?’ _Doctor._ ‘You said your wife was sick, and you wished me to go and see her.’ _Defendant._ ‘What did you say?’ _Doctor._ ‘I said I would, if you’d pay me my fee.’ _Defendant._ ‘What did I say?’ _Doctor._ ‘You said you’d pay the fee, if so be you knew what it was.’ _Defendant._ ‘What did you say?’ _Doctor._ ‘I said I’d take the guinea at first, and maybe more at the end, according to the sickness.’ _Defendant._ ‘Now, docthor, by vartue of your oath, didn’t I say: “Kill or cure, docthor, I’ll give you a guinea?” And didn’t you say: “Kill or cure, I’ll take it?”’ _Doctor._ ‘You did; and I agreed to the bargain. And I want the guinea accordingly.’ _Defendant._ ‘Now, docthor, by vartue of your oath answer this: Did you cure my wife?’ _Doctor._ ‘No; she’s dead. You know that.’ _Defendant._ ‘Then, docthor, by vartue of your oath answer this: Did you kill my wife?’ _Doctor._ ‘No; she died of her illness.’ _Defendant_ (to the bench). ‘Your worship, see this. You heard him tell our bargain. It was to kill or cure. By vartue of his oath, _he done neither!_—and he axes the fee!’ The verdict, however, went against poor Pat, notwithstanding his ingenuity. * * * * * Something like the following story has been told before in these pages. It will, however, bear repetition. Mr F——, Clerk of the Crown for Limerick, was over six feet high and stout in proportion. He was the dread of the cabmen, and if their horses could have spoken, they would not have blessed him.