Part 20 (2/2)

”Whatever it is,” says he, ”it's in the room wid us,” says he. ”The Lord be marciful to us!” says he.

”I tould you not to be cursin',” says she; ”bad luck to you,” says she, ”for an ommadhaun!” for she was a very religious woman in herself.

”Sure, he's buried in Spain,” says he; ”an' it is not for one little innocent expression,” says he, ”he'd be comin' all that way to annoy the house,” says he.

Well, while they war talkin,' Bill turns in the way he was sleepin' into an aisier imposture; and as soon as he stopped snorin' ould Tim Donovan's courage riz agin, and says he.

”I'll go to the kitchen,” says he, ”an' light a rish,” says he.

An' with that away wid him, an' the wife kep' workin' the beads all the time, an' before they kem back Bill was snorin' as loud as ever.

”Oh! b.l.o.o.d.y wars--I mane the blessed saints above us!--that deadly sound,” says he; ”it's going on as lively as ever,” says he.

”I'm as wake as a rag,” says his wife, says she, ”wid the fair anasiness,” says she. ”It's out iv the little closet it's comin',” says she.

”Say your prayers,” says he, ”an' hould your tongue,” says he, ”while I discoorse it,” says he. ”An' who are ye,” says he, ”in the name iv all the holy saints?” says he, givin' the door a dab iv a crusheen that wakened Bill inside.

”I ax,” says he, ”who you are?” says he.

Well, Bill did not rightly remember where in the world he was, but he pushed open the door, an' says he:

”Billy Malowney's my name,” says he, ”an' I'll thank ye to tell me a betther,” says he.

Well, whin Tim Donovan heard that, an' actially seen that it was Bill himself that was in it, he had not strength enough to let a bawl out iv him, but he dhropt the candle out iv his hand, an' down wid himself on his back in the dark.

Well, the wife let a screech you'd hear at the mill iv Killraghlin, an'--

”Oh,” says she, ”the spirit has him, body an' bones!” says she. ”Oh, holy St. Bridget--oh Mother iv Marcy--oh, Father O'Flaherty!” says she, screechin' murdher from out iv her bed.

Well, Bill Malowney was not a minute rememberin' himself, an' so out wid him quite an' aisy, an' through the kitchen; bud in place iv the door iv the house, it's what he kem to the door iv Father O'Flaherty's little room, where he was jist wakenin' wid the noise iv the screechin' an'

battherin'; an', bedad, Bill makes no more about it, but he jumps, wid one boult, clever an' clane into his Raverance's bed.

”What do ye mane, you uncivilised bliggard?” says his Raverance. ”Is that a venerable way,” says he, ”to approach your clargy?” says he.

”Hould your tongue,” says Bill, ”an' I'll do ye no harum,” says he.

”Who are you, ye schoundhrel iv the world?” says his Raverance.

”Whisht!” says he, ”I'm Bill Malowney,” says he.

”You lie!” says his Raverance--for he was frightened beyont all bearin'--an' he makes bud one jump out iv the bed at the wrong side, where there was only jist a little place in the wall for a press, an'

his Raverance could not as much as turn in it for the wealth iv kingdoms. ”You lie,” says he; ”but for fear it's the thruth you're tellin',” says he, ”here's at ye in the name iv all the blessed saints together!” says he.

An' wid that, my dear, he blazes away at him wid a Latin prayer iv the strongest description, an', as he said to himself afterwards, that was iv a nature that id dhrive the divil himself up the chimley like a puff iv tobacky smoke, wid his tail betune his legs.

”Arra, what are ye sthrivin' to say,” says Bill, says he; ”if ye don't hould your tongue,” says he, ”wid your parly voo,” says he, ”it's what I'll put my thumb on your windpipe,” says he, ”an' Billy Malowney never wint back iv his word yet,” says he.

”Thunder-an-owns,” says his Raverance, says he--seein' the Latin took no infect on him, at all at all, an' screechin' that you'd think he'd rise the thatch up iv the house wid the fair fright--”an' thundher and blazes, boys, will none of yes come here wid a candle, but lave your clargy to be choked by a spirit in the dark?” says he.

<script>