"Murder and turf!" cried the man, "but that was the devil's own plaister
that you gave me here for my back, and it left me as raw as a turnip,
taking every bit of my skin off me entirely, foreby my lying in bed for
a whole week, and losing my day's work."

"I really do not recollect supplying you with a plaister, my good man,"
replied Mr Brookes.

"Then by the piper that played before Moses, if you don't recollect it,
I've an idea that I shall never forget it. Sure enough, it cured me, but
wasn't I quite kilt before I was cured?"

"It must have been some other shop," observed Mr Brookes. "You have made
a mistake."

"Devil a bit of a mistake, except in selling me the plaister. Didn't I
get it of a lad in this same shop?"

"Nobody sells things out of this shop without my knowledge."

The Irishman was puzzled--he looked round the shop. "Well, then, if this
a'n't the shop, it was own sister to it."

"Timothy," called Mr Brookes.

"And sure enough there was a Timothy in the other shop, for I heard the
boy call the other by the name; however, it's no matter, if it took off
the skin, it also took away the thumbago, so the morning to you, Mr
Pottykarry."