Quid mortibus, portendibus--my missus am most dead." "To the pots wid yeer latin, ye nager," said Bridget, seizing the tongs and holding them threatingly over his head.

"To the pots wid yeer latin, ye nager.

Spake so a dacent woman can understand what ye mane." To appease Bridget's wrath and save his head, Bowles condescended to use plain English in describing what had happened up stairs.
"Much good may the faint do the big, auld woman," said Bridget, with an air of indifference.

"The divel takes a mighty good care of his own." "Quid--mortibus--portendibus," repeated Bowles, as Bridget ran to the door with the tongs upraised, causing him to beat a hasty retreat.
"Bad luck to such a nager!" exclaimed Bridget, as Bowles shut the door.
"Shure he thinks more about his latin and his livery an he do about his priest." "Chapman, my dear Chapman, how crushing this all is," the lady whispered, as she began to recover her consciousness.

"I feel more dead than alive--I do.