“‘I’m convanient,’ said he, and began dealing out as if there was a partner fornenst him. “When my father used to get this far in the story, he became very confused. He says that once or twice he mistook the liquor, and took a pull at the bottle of poteen instead of the punch; and the last thing he remembers was asking poor Father Dwyer if he would draw near to the fire, and not be lying there near the door. “With that he slipped down on the ground and fell fast asleep. How long he lay that way he could never tell. When he awoke and looked up, his hair nearly stood on an end with fright. What do you think he seen fornenst him, sitting at the other side of the fire, but Father Dwyer himself. There he was, divil a lie in it, wrapped up in one of the mourning cloaks, trying to warm his hands at the fire. “‘_Salve hoc nomine patri!_’ said my father, crossing himself, ‘av it’s your ghost, God presarve me!’ “‘Good-evening t’ye, Mr. Free,’ said the ghost; ‘and av I might be bould, what’s in the jug?’--for ye see, my father had it under his arm fast, and never let it go when he was asleep. “‘_Pater noster qui es in_,--poteen, sir,’ said my father; for the ghost didn’t look pleased at his talking Latin. “‘Ye might have the politeness to ax if one had a mouth on him, then,’ says the ghost. “‘Sure, I didn’t think the likes of you would taste sperits.’ “‘Try me,’ said the ghost; and with that he filled out a glass, and tossed it off like a Christian. “‘Beamish!’ says the ghost, smacking his lips. “‘The same,’ says my father; ‘and sure what’s happened you has not spoiled your taste.’ “‘If you’d mix a little hot,’ says the ghost, ‘I’m thinking it would be better,--the night is mighty sevare.’ “‘Anything that your reverance pleases,’ says my father, as he began to blow up a good fire to boil the water. “‘And what news is stirring?’ says the ghost. “‘Devil a word, your reverance,--your own funeral was the only thing doing last week. Times is bad; except the measles, there’s nothing in our parts.’ “‘And we’re quite dead hereabouts, too,’ says the ghost. “‘There’s some of us so, anyhow, says my father, with a sly look. ‘Taste that, your reverance.’ “‘Pleasant and refreshing,’ says the ghost; ‘and now, Mr. Free, what do you say to a little “spoilt five,” or “beggar my neighbor”?’ “‘What will we play for? ‘says my father, for a thought just struck him,--‘may be it’s some trick of the Devil to catch my soul.’ “‘A pint of Beamish,’ says the ghost. “‘Done!’ says my father; ‘cut for deal. The ace of clubs,--you have it.’ “Now the whole time the ghost was dealing the cards, my father never took his eyes off of him, for he wasn’t quite aisy in his mind at all; but when he saw him turn up the trump, and take a strong drink afterwards, he got more at ease, and began the game.