"'Thank your honour,' says my father, gettin' courage, 'you were always a
civil spoken gintleman, God rest your honour.'

"'Rest my honour,' says the sperit (fairly gettin' red in the face with
the madness), 'Rest my honour?' says he. 'Why, you ignorant spalpeen,'
says he, 'you mane, niggarly ignoramush,' says he, 'where did you lave
your manners?' says he. 'If I _am_ dead, it's no fault iv mine,' says he;
'an' it's not to be thrun in my teeth at every hand's turn, by the likes
iv you,' says he, stampin' his foot an the flure, that you'd think the
boords id smash undher him.

"'Oh,' says my father, 'I'm only a foolish, ignorant, poor man,' says he.

"'You're nothing else,' says the squire; 'but any way,' says he, 'it's
not to be listenin' to your gosther, nor convarsin' with the likes iv
you, that I came _up_--down I mane,' says he--(an' as little as the
mistake was, my father tuck notice iv it). 'Listen to me now, Terence
Neil,' says he, 'I was always a good masther to Pathrick Neil, your
grandfather,' says he.

"'Tis thrue for your honour,' says my father.

"'And, moreover, I think I was always a sober, riglar gintleman,' says
the squire.

"'That's your name, sure enough,' says my father (though it was a big lie
for him, but he could not help it).

"'Well,' says the sperit, 'although I was as sober as most men--at laste