"Throth, Condy, I don't know, rightly. I went out, wantin' my coat,
about a week ago, an' got cowld in the small o' the back; I've a pain in
it ever since. Be sittin'."

"Is your heart safe? You have no smotherin' or anything upon it?"

"Why thin, thank goodness, no; it's all about my back an' my inches."

"Divil a thing it is but a complaint they call an _alloverness_ ails
you, you shkaimer o' the world wide. 'Tis the oil o' the hazel, or a
rubbin' down wid an oak towel you want. Get up, I say, or, by this an'
by that, I'll flail you widin an inch o' your life."

"Is it beside yourself you are, Condy?"

"No, no, faix; I've found you out: Ellish is afther tellin' me that it
was a smotherin' on the heart; but it's a pain in the small o' the back
wid yourself. Oh, you born desaver! Get up, I say agin, afore I take the
stick to you!"

"Why, thin, all sorts o' fortune to you, Condy--ha, ha, ha!--but you're
the sarra's pet, for there's no escapin' you. What was that I hard
atween you an' Ellish?" said Peter, getting up.

"The sarra matther to you. If you behave yourself, we may let you into
the wrong side o' the sacret afore you die. Go an' get us a pint of what
you know," replied Condy, as he and Peter entered the kitchen.

"Ellish," said Peter, "I suppose we must give it to thim. Give it--give