Jim, roarin' out; 'what do you want wid
me this time a-day?' says he.

'Don't you know me?' says the gossoon,
'it's Mick Hanlon that's in it,' says
he.

'Oh, blur an agers, thin, it's welcome
you are, Micky asthore,' says Jim; 'how
is all wid the man an' the woman beyant?'
says he.

'Oh!' says Micky, 'bad enough,' says
he; 'the ould man's jist aff, an' if you don't
hurry like shot,' says he, 'he'll be in glory
before you get there,' says he.

'It's jokin' ye are,' says Jim, sorrowful
enough, for he was mighty partial to his
uncle intirely.

'Oh, not in the smallest taste,' says
Micky; 'the breath was jist out iv him,'
says he, 'when I left the farm. "An'," says
he, "take the ould black horse," says he,
"for he's shure-footed for the road," says
he, "an' bring, Jim Soolivan here," says he,
"for I think I'd die asy af I could see him
onst,' says he.'