'What's that?' says Hogan.
Whin a man says, 'What's that?' in a bar-room, it manes a fight, if he
says it wanst. If he says it twict, it manes a fut race. 'I say,' says
Scanlan, 'that, if ye make anny more funny cracks, I'll hitch a horse
to that basket fender,' he says, 'an' dhrag it fr'm ye,' he says. At
that Hogan dhrew his soord, an' says he: 'Come on,' he says, 'come on,
an' take a lickin,' he says. An' Scanlan dhrew his soord, too. 'Wait,'
says Hogan. 'Wait a minyit,' he says. 'I must think,' he says. 'I must
think a pome,' he says. 'Whiniver I fight,' he says, 'I always have a
pome,' he says. 'Glory be,' says I, 'there's Scanlan's chanst to give
it to him,' I says. But Scanlan was as slow as a dhray; an', before he
cud get action, Hogan was at him, l'adin' with th' pome an' counthrin'
with the soord. 'I'll call this pome,' he says, 'a pome about a gazabo
I wanst had a dool with in Finucane's hall,' he says. 'I'll threat ye
r-right,' he says, 'an' at the last line I'll hand ye wan,' he says.
An' he done it. 'Go in,' he says in th' pome, 'go in an' do ye'er
worst,' he says.
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