'Why, your honor,' said he, 'this is a poor, honest creature that has been selling us eggs and chickens for many years.' 'She wouldn't be a go-between, Lanigan--eh?
What's your name, you old faggot--eh ?' 'My name | is Scrahag, your honor,' says I, 'one of the Scrahags of Ballycumpiatee--an honest and dacint family, sir; but if your honor would buy the eggs, at any rate, and hatch them yourself,' says I to him (for she had a large stock of Irish humor), 'you know, sir, you could have the chickens at first cost.' 'Ha, ha, ha,' and the squire laughed till he nearly split his sides; 'by -- - I'm hit'-- God pardon me for repeatin' his oaths.

'Here, Lanigan, bring her down to the kitchen, and give her a fog meal.' 'I understand you, sir,' said Lanigan, smiling at him.

'Yes, Lanigan, give her a cargo of the best in the pantry.

She's a shrewd and comical old blade,' said he; 'give her a kegful of beef or mutton, or both, and a good swill of ale or porter, or whatever she prefers.

Curse me, but I give the old whelp credit for the hit she gave me.