“Boys,” said he, “she's too many for us! St. 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.” “Divil a thing it is but a complaint they call an _alloverness_ ails you, you shkaimer o' the world wide. 'Tis the oil o' the hazel, or a rubbin' down wid an oak towel you want. Get up, I say, or, by this an' by that, I'll flail you widin an inch o' your life.” “Is it beside yourself you are, Condy?” “No, no, faix; I've found you out: Ellish is afther tellin' me that it was a smotherin' on the heart; but it's a pain in the small o' the back wid yourself. Oh, you born desaver! Get up, I say agin, afore I take the stick to you!” “Why, thin, all sorts o' fortune to you, Condy--ha, ha, ha!--but you're the sarra's pet, for there's no escapin' you. What was that I hard atween you an' Ellish?” said Peter, getting up. “The sarra matther to you. If you behave yourself, we may let you into the wrong side o' the sacret afore you die. Go an' get us a pint of what you know,” replied Condy, as he and Peter entered the kitchen. “Ellish,” said Peter, “I suppose we must give it to thim. Give it--give it, avourneen. Now, Condy, whin 'ill you pay me for this?” “Never fret yourself about that; you'll be ped. Honor bright, as the black said whin he stole the boots.” “Now Pettier,” said the wife, “sure it's no use axin' me to give it, afther the promise I made last night. Give it yourself; for me, I'll have no hand in such things good or bad. I hope we'll soon get out of it altogether, for myselfs sick an' sore of it, dear knows!”