I ever see in all me born days you are the worst, Darby O’Gill. You’ve not only guve impidence to your wife—an’ she’s worth four of you—but you’ve gone back on the friends you purtended to⸺”
Malachi’s faytures got no further in their insultin’ raymarks, for at that Darby swooped up a big sod of turf an’ let it fly at the owdacious baste.
Now it is well known that be a spontaneous trow like that no one ever yet hit a sinsible cat, but always an’ ever in that unlucky endayvour he strikes a damaginger blow where it’s not intinded. So it was this time.
Bridget, wearing her red cloak an’ hood, was just coming through the door, an’ that misfortunate sod of turf caught her fair an’ square, right below the chist, an’ she staggered back agin the wall.
Darby’s consthernaytion an’ complycation an’ turpitaytion were beyant imaginaytion.
Bridget laned there gasping. If she felt as bad as she looked, four Dublint surgunts with their saws an’ knives couldn’t have done her a ha-porth of good. Howsumever, for all that, the sly woman had seen Malachi dodge an’ go gallopin’ away, but she purtendid to think ’twas at herself the turf was trun.
