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‘Well, your honour, as I was sayin’, one time the family up at the castle was stayin’ in Dublin for a week or two; and so, as usual, some of the tinants had to sit up in the castle, and the third night it kem to my father’s turn. “Oh, tare an’ ouns!” says he unto himself, “an’ must I sit up all night, and that ould vagabone of a sperit, glory be to God,” says he, “serenadin’ through the house, an’ doin’ all sorts iv mischief?” However, there was no gettin’ aff, and so he put a bould face on it, an’ he went up at nightfall with a bottle of pottieen, and another of holy wather.

‘It was rainin’ smart enough, an’ the evenin’ was darksome and gloomy, when my father got in; and what with the rain he got, and the holy wather he sprinkled on himself, it wasn’t long till he had to swally a cup iv the pottieen, to keep the cowld out iv his heart. It was the ould steward, Lawrence Connor, that opened the door–and he an’ my father wor always very great. So when he seen who it was, an’ my father tould him how it was his turn to watch in the castle, he offered to sit up along with him; and you may be sure my father wasn’t sorry for that same. So says Larry:

‘ “We’ll have a bit iv fire in the parlour,” says he.

‘ “An’ why not in the hall?” says my father, for he knew that the squire’s picthur was hung in the parlour.

‘ “No fire can be lit in the hall,” says Lawrence, “for there’s an ould jackdaw’s nest in the chimney.”

‘ “Oh thin,” says my father, “let us stop in the kitchen, for it’s very unproper for the likes iv me to be sittin’ in the parlour,” says he.

‘ “Oh, Terry, that can’t be,” says Lawrence; “if we keep up the ould custom at all, we may as well keep it up properly,” says he.

‘ “Divil sweep the ould custom!” says my father–to himself, do ye mind, for he didn’t like to let Lawrence see that he was more afeard himself.

‘ “Oh, very well,” says he. “I’m agreeable, Lawrence,” says he; and so down they both wint to the kitchen, until the fire id be lit in the parlour–an’ that same wasn’t long doin’.

‘Well, your honour, they soon wint up again, an’ sat down mighty comfortable by the parlour fire, and they beginned to talk, an’ to smoke, an’ to dhrink a small taste iv the pottieen; and, moreover, they had a good rousin’ fire o’ bogwood and turf, to warm their shins over.

‘Well, sir, as I was sayin’ they kep’ convarsin’ and smokin’ together most agreeable, until Lawrence beginn’d to get sleepy, as was but nathural for him, for he was an ould sarvint man, and was used to a great dale iv sleep.

‘ “Sure it’s impossible,” says my father, “it’s gettin’ sleepy you are?”

‘ “Oh, divil a taste,” says Larry; “I’m only shuttin’ my eyes,” says he, “to keep out the parfume o’ the tibacky smoke, that’s makin’ them wather,” says he. “So don’t you mind other people’s business,” says he, stiff enough, for he had a mighty high stomach av his own (rest his sowl), “and go on,” says he, “with your story, for I’m listenin’,” says he, shuttin’ down his eyes.

‘Well, when my father seen spakin’ was no use, he went on with his story. By the same token, it was the story of Jim Soolivan and his ould goat he was tellin’–an’ a plisant story it is–an’ there was so much divarsion in it, that it was enough to waken a dormouse, let alone to pervint a Christian goin’ asleep. But, faix, the way my father tould it, I believe there never was the likes heerd sinst nor before, for he bawled out every word av it, as if the life was fairly lavin’ him, thrying to keep ould Larry awake; but, faix, it was no use, for the hoorsness came an him, an’ before he kem to the end of his story Larry O’Connor beginned to snore like a bagpipes.