FACETIOUS IDLE-TALK.
…. AN IRISH WAGER. –
“Nate hand you are thin, my darlin’!” said one Irish bricklayer to another, “you mount the ladder wid your hod full o’ stones, and scatter ‘em on the heads iv us as you go. Och, blatheration, blood and ouns! By shem that’s holy, I’d carry yourself up, from the flags to the roof, and down again widout your spilt.”
“You don’t do it, sir!” returned the fellow laborer, “I’d lay a trifle you couldn’t!”
“For a pint o’ whiskey I would tho’ is it the likes o’ you I might not lift? – D’ye you take my bet, honey?”
“Faith do I put my soul’s salvation against yer pint, (and that’s a fair trade) that you can’t”
“In wid your dirty karkas, and we’ll thry it.”
Fearful as the experiment may seem, it was successful. When two-thirds up the ladder, Paddy roared out –
“M’Carthy, you devil ye, sit aisy, or I’ll spill ye!”
“Sure, and isn’t it that I’d be after having ye do!” returned Mac.
When safe landed he exclaimed –
“I didn’t think it was in the likes o’ ye. As it happens, you’ve won, I’m bate; but just as we war comin’ by the third story, I was in hopes!”