We have also in our company an indiscreet and inflammable Irishman
from Wexford and a cutler from Birmingham, who lose no opportunity
to have a conversational scrimmage. When the car stops to change or
water the horses (and as for this last operation, our steeds might
always manage it without loss of time by keeping their mouths open),
we generally hear something like this; for although the two
gentlemen have never met before, they fight as if they had known
each other all their lives.
Mr. Shamrock. "Faith, then, if you don't like the hotels and the
railroads, go to Paris or London; we've done widout you up to now,
and we can kape on doing widout you! We'd have more money to spind
in entertainin' you if the government hadn't taken three million of
pounds out of us to build fortifications in China."
Mr. Rose. "That's all bosh and nonsense; you wouldn't know how to
manage an hotel if you had the money."
Mr. Shamrock. "If we can't make hotel-kapers, it's soldiers we can
make; and be the same token you can't manage India or Canada widout
our help! Faith, England owes Ireland more than she can pay, and
it's not her business to be thravelin' round criticisin' the
throubles she's helped to projuce."
Mr. Rose. "William Ewart Gladstone did enough for your island to
make up for all the harm that the other statesmen may or may not
have done."
Mr. Shamrock, touched in his most vulnerable point, shrieks above
the rattle of the wheels: "The wurrst statesman that iver put his
name to paper was William Ewart Gladstone!"
Mr.
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