hand, an' she took jist the smallest taste
in life iv the boilin' wather out iv the pot,
an' she dhropped it down an his shins, an'
with that he let a roar you'd think the
roof id fly aff iv the house.

'Hould your tongue, you barbarrian,'
says she; 'you'll waken the child,' says
she.

'An' if I done right,' says he, for the
spoonful of boilin' wather riz him entirely,
'I'd take yourself,' says he, 'an' I'd stuff
you into the pot an the fire, an' boil you.'
says he, 'into castor oil,' says he.

'That's purty behavour,' says she; 'it's
fine usage you're givin' me, isn't it?' says
she, gettin' wickeder every minute; 'but
before I'm boiled,' says she, 'thry how you
like THAT,' says she; an', sure enough, before
he had time to put up his guard, she hot
him a rale terrible clink iv the iron spoon
acrass the jaw.

'Hould me, some iv ye, or I'll murdher
her,' says he.

'Will you?' says she, an' with that she
hot him another tin times as good as the