“Ay, to be sure, you’re safe—­safe—­as—­as the bank (hiccup).  You’re a gintlemen, si—­r you’re a Con Roe—­the ace o’ hearts you are.  Ay, you shot—­like a ma—­an, and didn’t card—­ard him wid tomcats, and then put the poo—­oo—­oor (hiccup) devil into a grave lined wid thorns; ah, you cowardly ould villain! the devil, in the shape of a to—­to—­tom-cat will card you in hell yet; an’ moreover, you’ll ne—­never—­ever die in your bed, you hard-hearted ould scut o’ blazes; an’ that you may not, I pray Ja—­sa—­sus this night—­an’ God forgive us all—­amin, acheema!”

“Hould your drunken tongue, Ned,” said he who seemed to assume authority over them; “we want to put this poor boy, who died of liquor to-night, into the bed, and I suppose you’ll have no objection.”

“None at all at all,” replied M’Carthy, assuming the brogue, at which, fortunately for himself, he was an adept; “it’s a good man’s case, boys; blood an’ turf, give him a warm birth of it—­he’ll find it snug and comfortable.”

They then placed the corpse on the bed but changing their mind, they raised him for a moment, putting him under the bedclothes, pinned a stocking, about his head to give him a domestic look; after which they returned to the tap-room of the shebeen-house, for such in fact it was.  The latter change in the position of the corpse was made from an apprehension lest the police might come in search of the body, and with the hope that he might pass for a person asleep.

“You’ll drink something wid us,” said the principal among them; “but, before you do, I suppose you are as you ought to be.”

M’Carthy, who really was in a frightful state of thirst, determined at once to put on the reckless manner of a wild and impetuous Irishman, who set all law and established institutions at defiance.

“You suppose I am as I ought to be,” he exclaimed, with a look of contempt; “why, thin, I suppose so too:  in the mane time, an’ before you bother me wid more gosther, I’d thank you to give me a drink o’ whisky and wather—­for, to tell you the truth, blast me but I think there’s a confligration on a small scale goin’ an inwardly; hurry, boys, or I’ll split.  Ah, boys, if you but knew what I wint through the last three days an’ three nights.”

“And what did you go through it all for?” asked the principal of them, with something of distrust in his manner.

“What did I go through it fwhor? fwhy, thin, fwhor the sake o’ the trewth—­I’m a Gaaulway man, boys, and it isn’t in Can-naught you’ll fwhind the man that’s afeard to do fwhat’s right:  here’s aaul your healths, and that everything may soon be as it ought to be.”

“Well,” said the other, “you are a Can-naught man sartainly, that’s clear from your tongue; but I want to axe you a question.’

“Fwhy nat? it’s but fair,—­it’s but fair, I say,—­take that wit j’ou, an’ I’m the boy that will answer it, if I can, bekaise you know, or maybe you don’t—­but it’s a proverb we have in Cannaught wit us—­that a fool may ax a question that a wise man couldn’t answer:  well, what is it?”