"’Look at that owld thing,’ says they. ’Phat a power av impidince! Mind the consate av her to be comin’ here wid him. Sure she hasn’t the shame av a shtone monkey,’ says they av her. "’Silence in the coort,’ says the shur’f. ’Stop that laughin’ be the dure. Git along down out o’ thim windys,’ says he to the mob that Dooley an’ the consthable brought wid thim. "’Misther Dooley,’ says the judge, ’I’m axed to b’lave ye’re thryin’ to marry four wimmin at wanst, three av the same aforeshed bein’ widdys an’ the other wan not. Is it thrue, or do ye plade not guilty?’ says he. "’It’s not thrue, yer Lordshap,’ says Dooley, shpakin’ up, bekase he seen he was in for it an’ put on a bowld face. ’Thim widdys is crazy to get a husband, an’ misconsayved the manin’ o’ me words,’ says he, an’ that minnit you’d think a faymale lunattic ashylum broke loose in the coort. "They all gabbled at wanst like a field av crows. They said he was a haythen, a Toork, a vulgar shpalpeen, a lyin’ blaggârd, a uppresser av the widdy, a robber av the orphin, he was worse than a nagur, he was, so he was, an’ they niver thought av belavin’ him, nor av marryin’ him aither till he axed thim, an’ so on. "The judge was a married man himself an’ knewn it was no use thryin’ to shtop the gostherin,’ for it was a joke av him to say that the differ bechuxt a woman an’ a book was you cud shut up a book, so he let thim go on till they were spint an’ out o’ breath an’ shtopped o’ thimselves like an owld clock that’s run down. "’The sintince av this coort, Misther Dooley, is, that ye marry wan av ’em an’ make compinsation to the other wans in a paycoonyary way be payin’ thim siven poun’ aitch.’ "’Have marcy, yer Lordshap,’ says Dooley, bekase he seen himself shtripped av all he had. ’Make it five poun’, an’ that’s more than I’ve got in money.’ "’Siven pound, not a haporth less,’ says the judge. ’If ye haven’t the money ye can pay it in projuice. An’ make yer chice bechune the wimmin who ye’ll marry, as it’s married ye’ll be this blessed day, bekase ye’ve gone too long a’ready,’ says the judge, very starn, an’ thin the widdys all got quite, an’ begun to be sorry they gev him so many hard names. "’Is it wan o’ the widdys must I marry?’ says Dooley, axin’ the judge, an’ the charm in his coller beginnin’ to work hard an’ remind him av Miss Rooney, that was settin’ on wan side, trimblin’. "’Tare an’ ’ouns,’ says the judge. ’Bad luck to ye, ye onmannerly idjit,’ as he was gettin’ vexed wid Dooley, that was shtandin’, scrotchin’ the head av him like he was thryin’ to encourage his brains. ’Wasn’t it wan o’ the wimmin that I tould ye to take?’ says he.