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‘ “Ho, ho!” says the squire, stoppin’ short about two steps aff, and turnin’ round facin’ my father, “is it you that’s in it?–an’ how’s all with you, Terry Neil?”

‘ “At your honour’s sarvice,” says my father (as well as the fright id let him, for he was more dead than alive), “an’ it’s proud I am to see your honour tonight,” says he.

‘ “Terence,” says the squire, “you’re a respectable man” (an’ it was thrue for him), “an industhrious, sober man, an’ an example of inebriety to the whole parish,” says he.

‘ “Thank your honour,” says my father, gettin’ courage, “you were always a civil spoken gintleman, God rest your honour.”

‘ “REST my honour?” says the sperit (fairly gettin’ red in the face with the madness), “Rest my honour?” says he. “Why, you ignorant spalpeen,” says he, “you mane, niggarly ignoramush,” says he, “where did you lave your manners?” says he. “If I AM dead, it’s no fault iv mine,” says he; “an’ it’s not to be thrun in my teeth at every hand’s turn, by the likes iv you,” says he, stampin’ his foot an the flure, that you’d think the boords id smash undther him.

‘ “Oh,” says my father, “I’m only a foolish, ignorant poor man,” says he.

‘ “You’re nothing else,” says the squire: “but any way,” says he, “it’s not to be listenin’ to your gosther, nor convarsin’ with the likes iv you, that I came UP– down I mane,” says he–(an’ as little as the mistake was, my father tuk notice iv it). “Listen to me now, Terence Neil,” says he: “I was always a good masther to Pathrick Neil, your grandfather,” says he.

‘ ” ‘Tis thrue for your honour,” says my father.

‘ “And, moreover, I think I was always a sober, riglar gintleman,” says the squire.

‘ “That’s your name, sure enough,” says my father (though it was a big lie for him, but he could not help it).

‘ “Well,” says the sperit, “although I was as sober as most men–at laste as most gintlemin,” says he; “an’ though I was at different pariods a most extempory Christian, and most charitable and inhuman to the poor,” says he; “for all that I’m not as asy where I am now,” says he, “as I had a right to expect,” says he.

‘ “An’ more’s the pity,” says my father. “Maybe your honour id wish to have a word with Father Murphy?”

‘ “Hould your tongue, you misherable bliggard,” says the squire; “it’s not iv my sowl I’m thinkin’–an’ I wondther you’d have the impitence to talk to a gintleman consarnin’ his sowl; and when I want THAT fixed,” says he, slappin’ his thigh, “I’ll go to them that knows what belongs to the likes,” says he. “It’s not my sowl,” says he, sittin’ down opossite my father; “it’s not my sowl that’s annoyin’ me most –I’m unasy on my right leg,” says he, “that I bruk at Glenvarloch cover the day I killed black Barney.”

‘My father found out afther, it was a favourite horse that fell undher him, afther leapin’ the big fence that runs along by the glin.

‘ “I hope,” says my father, “your honour’s not unasy about the killin’ iv him?”

‘ “Hould your tongue, ye fool,” said the squire, “an’ I’ll tell you why I’m unasy on my leg,” says he. “In the place, where I spend most iv my time,” says he, “except the little leisure I have for lookin’ about me here,” says he, “I have to walk a great dale more than I was ever used to,” says he, “and by far more than is good for me either,” says he; “for I must tell you,” says he, “the people where I am is ancommonly fond iv cowld wather, for there is nothin’ betther to be had; an’, moreover, the weather is hotter than is altogether plisant,” says he; “and I’m appinted,” says he, “to assist in carryin’ the wather, an’ gets a mighty poor share iv it myself,” says he, “an’ a mighty throublesome, wearin’ job it is, I can tell you,” says he; “for they’re all iv them surprisinly dthry, an’ dthrinks it as fast as my legs can carry it,” says he; “but what kills me intirely,” says he, “is the wakeness in my leg,” says he, “an’ I want you to give it a pull or two to bring it to shape,” says he, “and that’s the long an’ the short iv it,” says he.