"
"You have thought of what, Cooney?"
"Why, death alive, man, sure there's plenty of time, God be praised for
it, for the--murdher, why didn't we think of it before? ha, ha, ha!"
"For the what, man? don't keep us longin' for it."
"Why for the pratie crops to fail still; sure it's only the beginning
o' May now, and who knows but we might have the happiness to see a right
good general failure of the praties still? Eh? ha, ha, ha!"
"Upon my sounds, Cooney, you have taken a good deal of weight off of me.
Faith we have the lookout of a bad potato crop yet, sure enough. How is
the wind? Don't you think you feel a little dry bitin' in it, as if it
came from the aist?"
"Why, then, in regard of the dead calm that's in it, I can't exactly
say--but, let me see--you're right, divil a doubt of it; faith it is,
sure enough; bravo, Jemmy, who knows but all may go wrong wid the crops
yet."
"At all events, let us have a glass on the head of it, and we'll drink
to the failure of the potato craps, and God prosper the aist wind, for
it's the best for you an' me, Cooney, that's goin'. Come up to the house
above, and we'll have a glass on the head of it."
The fastidious reader may doubt whether any two men, no matter how
griping or rapacious, could prevail upon themselves to express to each
other sentiments so openly inimical to all human sympathy.
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