“Now, Phelim,” said the father, “look about you, an' tell us what girl in the neighborhood you'd like to be married to.” “Why,” replied Phelim, “I'll lave that to you; jist point out the girl you'd like for your daughter-in-law, an' be she rich, poor, ould, or ugly, I'll delude her. That's the chat.” “Ah, Phelim, if you could put your comedher an Gracey Dalton, you'd be a made boy. She has the full of a rabbit-skin o' guineas.” “A made boy! Faith, they say I'm that as it is, you know. But would you wish me to put my comedher on Gracey Dalton? Spake out.” “To be sure I would.” “Ay,” observed the mother, “or what 'ud you think of Miss Pattherson? That 'ud be the girl. She has a fine farm, an' five hundre pounds. She's a Protestant, but Phelim could make a Christian of her.” “To be sure I could,” said Phelim, “have her thumpin' her breast, and countin' her Padareens in no time. Would you wish me to have her, mudher?” “Throth an' I would, avick.” “That 'ud never do,” observed the father. “Sure you don't think she'd ever think of the likes o' Phelim?” “Don't make a goose of yourself, ould man,” observed Phelim. “Do you think if I set about it, that I'd not manufacture her senses as asy as I'd peel a piatee?” “Well, well,” replied the father, “in the name o' Goodness make up to her. Faith it ud' be somethin' to have a jauntin' car in the family!” “Ay, but what the sorra will I do for a suit o' clo'es?” observed Phelim. “I could never go near her in these breeches. My elbows, too, are out o' this ould coat, bad luck to it! An' as for a waistcoat, why, I dunna but it's a sin to call what I'm wearin' a waistcoat at all. Thin agin--why, blood alive, sure I can't go to her barefooted, an' I dunna but it 'ud be dacenter to do that same, than to step out in sich excuses for brogues as these. An' in regard o' the stockins', why, I've pulled them down, strivin' to look dacent, till one 'ud think the balls o' my legs is at my heels.” “The sorra word's in that but thruth, any how,” observed the father; “but what's to be done? For we have no way of gettin' them.” “Faith, I don't know that,” said Phelim. “What if we'd borry? I could get the loan of a pair of breeches from Dudley Dwire, an' a coat from Sam Appleton. We might thry Billy Brady for a waistcoat, an' a pair of stockings. Barny Buckram-back, the pinsioner, 'ud lend me his pumps; an' we want nothing now but a hat.” “Nothin' under a Caroline 'ud do, goin' there,” observed the father. “I think Father O'Hara 'ud oblige me wid the loan o' one for a day or two;” said Phelim; “he has two or three o' them, all as good as ever.” “But, Phelim,” said the father, “before we go to all this trouble, are you sure you could put your comedher on Miss Pattherson?” “None o' your nonsense,” said Phelim, “don't you know I could? I hate a man to be puttin' questions to me, when he knows them himself. It's a fashion you have got, an' you ought to dhrop it.”