annything less thin a safe fallin' on ye fr'm a twenty-story building ye
know ye ar-re goin' to die. Th' good woman advises a mustard plasther
but ye scorn th' suggestion. What good wud a mustard plasther be again
this fatal epidemic that is ragin' inside iv ye? Besides a mustard
plasther wud hurt. So th' good woman, frivilous crather that she is,
goes back to her wurruk singin' a light chune. She knows she's goin' to
have to put up with ye f'r some time to come. A mustard plasther,
Hinnissy, is th' rale test iv whether a pain is goin' to kill ye or not.
If the plasther is onbearable ye can bet th' pain undherneath it is not.

"But ye know ye are goin' to die an' ye're not sure whether ye'll send
f'r Father Kelly or th' doctor. Ye finally decide to save up Father
Kelly f'r th' last an' ye sind f'r th' Dock. Havin' rescued ye fr'm th'
jaws iv death two or three times befure whin ye had a sick headache th'
Dock takes his time about comin', but just as ye are beginnin' to throw
ye'er boots at th' clock an' show other signs iv what he calls rigem
mortar, he rides up in his fine horse an' buggy. He gets out slowly, one
foot at a time, hitches his horse an' ties a nose bag on his head. Thin
he chats f'r two hundherd years with th' polisman on th' beat. He tells
him a good story an' they laugh harshly.

"Whin th' polisman goes his way th' Dock meets th' good woman at th'
dure an' they exchange a few wurruds about th' weather, th' bad
condition iv th' sthreets, th' health iv Mary Ann since she had th'
croup an' ye'ersilf. Ye catch th' wurruds, 'Grape Pie,' 'Canned Salmon,'
'Cast-iron digestion.' Still he doesn't come up. He tells a few stories
to th' childher. He weighs th' youngest in his hands an' says: 'That's a
fine boy ye have, Mrs. Hinnissy. I make no doubt he'll grow up to be a
polisman.' He examines th' phottygraft album an' asks if that isn't
so-an'-so. An' all this time ye lay writhin' in mortal agony an' sayin'