Nora.  You’ve told us three times, Mr Doran.

Doran.  Well but whin I think of it—!

Aunt Judy.  Then don’t think of it, alanna.

Doran.  There was Patsy Farrll in the back sate wi dhe pig between his knees, n me bould English boyoh in front at the machinery, n Larry Doyle in the road startin the injine wid a bed winch.  At the first puff of it the pig lep out of its skin and bled Patsy’s nose wi dhe ring in its snout. [Roars of laughter:  Keegan glares at them].  Before Broadbint knew hwere he was, the pig was up his back and over into his lap; and bedad the poor baste did credit to Corny’s thrainin of it; for it put in the fourth speed wid its right crubeen as if it was enthered for the Gordn Bennett.

Nora [reproachfully].  And Larry in front of it and all!  It’s nothn to laugh at, Mr Doran.

Doran.  Bedad, Miss Reilly, Larry cleared six yards backwards at wan jump if he cleared an inch; and he’d a cleared seven if Doolan’s granmother hadn’t cotch him in her apern widhout intindin to. [Immense merriment].

Aunt Judy, Ah, for shame, Barney! the poor old woman!  An she was hurt before, too, when she slipped on the stairs.

Doran.  Bedad, ma’am, she’s hurt behind now; for Larry bouled her over like a skittle. [General delight at this typical stroke of Irish Rabelaisianism].

Nora.  It’s well the lad wasn’t killed.

Doran.  Faith it wasn’t o Larry we were thinkin jus dhen, wi dhe pig takin the main sthreet o Rosscullen on market day at a mile a minnit.  Dh ony thing Broadbint could get at wi dhe pig in front of him was a fut brake; n the pig’s tail was undher dhat; so that whin he thought he was putn non the brake he was ony squeezin the life out o the pig’s tail.  The more he put the brake on the more the pig squealed n the fasther he dhruv.

Aunt Judy.  Why couldn’t he throw the pig out into the road?

Doran.  Sure he couldn’t stand up to it, because he was spanchelled-like between his seat and dhat thing like a wheel on top of a stick between his knees.

Aunt Judy.  Lord have mercy on us!

Nora.  I don’t know how you can laugh.  Do you, Mr Keegan?

Keegan [grimly].  Why not?  There is danger, destruction, torment!  What more do we want to make us merry?  Go on, Barney:  the last drops of joy are not squeezed from the story yet.  Tell us again how our brother was torn asunder.

Doran [puzzled].  Whose bruddher?

Keegan.  Mine.

Nora.  He means the pig, Mr Doran.  You know his way.

Doran [rising gallantly to the occasion].  Bedad I’m sorry for your poor bruddher, Misther Keegan; but I recommend you to thry him wid a couple o fried eggs for your breakfast tomorrow.  It was a case of Excelsior wi dhat ambitious baste; for not content wid jumpin from the back seat into the front wan, he jumped from the front wan into the road in front of the car.  And—­