"Ye're a reg'lar Paddy, Mike.

Ye're a good fellow, but I'd sooner hearn a loon nor a pig." "Divil a bit o' raison have ye got in ye, Jim.

Ye can't ate a loon no more nor ye can ate a boot." Mike was getting impatient with the incorrigible character of Jim's prejudices, and Jim saw that he was grieving him.
"Well, I persume I sh'll have to keep pigs, Mike," he said, in a compromising tone; "but I shan't dress 'em in calliker, nor larn 'em to sing Old Hundred.

I sh'll jest let 'em rampage around the woods, an' when I want one on 'em, I'll shoot'im." "Yis, bedad, an' thin ye'll shkin 'im, an' throw the rist of 'im intil the river," responded Mike, contemptuously.
"No, Mike; I'll send for ye to cut 'im up an' pack 'im." "Now ye talk," said Mike; and this little overture of friendly confidence became a door through which he could enter a subject more profoundly interesting to him than that which related to his favorite quadruped.
"What kind of an owld woman have ye got, Jim?
Jist open yer heart like a box o' tobacky, Jim, an' lit me hilp ye.

There's no man as knows more about a woman nor Mike Conlin.