Paddy was completely nonplussed:--all the provisions were
gone, and yet his guests were not to be trifled with. He made a
hundred excuses--"'Twas late--'twas dry now--and there was nothing in
the house; sure they ate and drank enough." But all in vain. The ould
sinner was threatened with instant death if he delayed. So Paddy
called a council of war in the parlour, consisting of his wife and
himself.
"Agrah, Jillen, agrah, what will we do with these? Is there any meat
in the tub? Where is the tongue? If it was yours, Jillen, we'd give
them enough of it; but I mane the cow's." (aside.)
"Sure the proctors got the tongue ere yesterday, and you know there
an't a bit in the tub. Oh the murtherin villains! and I'll engage
'twill be no good for us, after all my white bread and the whisky.
That it may pison 'em!"
"Amen! Jillen; but don't curse them. After all, where's the meat? I'm
sure that Andy will kill me if we don't make it out any how;--and he
hasn't a penny to pay for it. You could drive the mail coach, Jillen,
through his breeches pocket without jolting over a ha'penny.
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