"Wid all the plisure in life," said Jerry Scanlan, a tall man of middle age, with a long, thin, clean shaven face, a humorous eye, and a shirt collar whose points in front came up almost to his eyes, whilst the back part disappeared into the depths of his frieze coat collar behind.
"Begor yer 'an'r I'll tell ye all I iver heerd. Sure there's a laygend, and there's a shtory—musha! but there's a wheen o' both laygends and shtories—but there's wan laygend beyant all—Here! Mother Kelligan, fill up me glass, fur sorra one o' me is a good dhry shpaker—Tell me, now, sor, do they allow punch to the Mimbers iv Parlymint whin they're spakin'?" I shook my head.
"Musha! thin, but its meself they'll niver git as a mimber till they alther that law. Thank ye, Mrs. Kelligan, this is just my shtyle. But now for the laygend that they tell of Shleenanaher:—"
