BEATING A GHOST

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume II, Issue 51, 19 June 1862, Page 3

BEATING A GHOST

Paddy Andrews was put to barfor nearly killing a ghost, wleydi, however, turned out to be no ghost at all ; but only a decent boy, who rejoices in the name of Micky Power. Paddy, it seems, is in the habit of getting blue every now and then, which means about every day in the week, and on each occasion he kicks up a row and breaks things, and then lies down to respose on his laurels. And Paddy has been doing all this for many a year past, until it lias become so natural to him at last, that so sure as he happens to go to bed sober, so sure is lie to get a headache, and thus as it may well be urged in his palliation, he is in a manner compelled to get drunk in self-defence. But notwithstanding that Mr. Andrews’ system so evidently requires three or four glasses a day to keep it in order, his better half is continually scolding and lecturing him, in her endeavors to make him sober, even though it would be at the risk of undermining his constitution ; hut of course Paddy knowing good men to be scarce, is up to a trick worth two ot this, and still continued to go the whole figure, as well because he is used to it as for the benefit of his health. And this was the way Paddy was getting on, without a single thorn in his path but Molly’s tongue, until one night, when lie was most unceremoniously awakened out of an ambrosial snooze, bv tho appearance of the aforementioned terrible apparition, which very politely informed him that it came hot loot from a certain place, to carry him away to the devil. 1 “Tho in’s and out’s ov it was jist this, yer honor,” commenced Paddy; “I was talcin’ a sleep in me own room like any other dacent man, an shure I had every raisin to do that same an me payin a dollar a week for the riut, whin all ov a sudden 1 hard somethin hittin me a punch in the ribs. ‘ Arrah, Molly, bo aisy wid you,’ sez T 1 1 m not Molly at all,’ sez a voice, ‘but the clivil, an I want you to go along wid me to a place where you 11 be able to light your pipe wid tho end of \ our finger,’ ‘Arrah, whislid wid you, an don t bo wantm to fnten the wits out ov a body,’ sez 1, ‘for share it’s only a man you must be,’ sez 1. ‘Pm not,’sez he, ‘ hut a ghost, an I could ait a man at a bit,’ sez he, ‘if I only took it into me head,’ sez he. ‘The Lord pnrsave us,’ soz I, ‘ bur it's now that I’m fixed intirely,’ soz I. ‘The devil a lie in that any way,’ sez hej ‘ but you’ll be fixed helther by-an-by whin I’ve stuck a fishing hook in your tongue, an hang you over a slow fire,’ sez he. Well, your honor, wid that I thought the life id lave me ; so I shut me eve and begun to thrimblo all over, like a poor dog in a wet sack whin sez the ghost, ‘Paddy Andhrews, Paddy Andhrews, Paddy Andhrews, do you know what yer goin to bo damned for?’ ‘I dunno,’ sez I, ‘fori go to mass every Sunday, and vote the dimycratic ticket.’ ‘That’s not enough to save you,’ sez he, ‘for,’ sez he, ‘your are damned for get tin’ dhrunk an batin’ your wife.’ ‘ Why, sure,’ sez I, ‘didn’t Saint Pat brick himself get dhrunk P’ ‘Ho did,’ sez he, ‘ but then a saint has a right to git dhrunk if lie wishes,’ sez he, ‘an not all as wan as the likes ov such an omadhaun as you.’ ‘That’s mighty quair,’ sez I. ‘Troth, an it is,’ sez ho, ‘ but it’s tho truth for all that, for lie towld me so yistorday. ‘W ho towld you so?’ sez I. ‘Saint Pathnek himself, av coorsc,’ sez he, ‘for I met him waPm on a golden cloud fornist wan ov the gates ov heaven.’ ‘ Millia, inurther, thin,’ sez I, ‘ ;i that’s the case, its all up wid me, au you must be Lie clivil in airnist.’ ‘ Faix, an to be sure I am,’ sex he, ‘an to prove it take that.’ And that I mightn’t sin, your honor, but the word was hardly out of his mouth, whin he begun to burn me face an hands wid somethin or other, until I thought, shure enough, that I was either in purgatory, or else, like yees protestants, had gone further and fared worse. Well, me dear, wid that I opened me eyes, and be the powers, there was a ghost wid a head on him as Dig as a barrel, and two great korns stickin out ov'it, that might have frightened the Pope himself. ‘O. marcy! mnrey! marcy ! have marcy this time,’ sez I,‘an I’ll be everything you bid me from this out, an for ever.’ soz I. ‘ iliin hero’s the hook,’ sez he, ‘an you must cither swear that you won’t dhrink a dhrop of anything stlmmger nor tay or coffee, but especially tbatyouTl putnolhin in (helineofbrandy,gin, rum, wishkoy, wine, ale, beer, portlier, into vour head for a year an a day ; or else I'll fly offwid you in a flash of blue brimstone,’ ‘ It’s a bargain,’ sez I, so Ttook the book and swore the oath, and kissed it nine times to show I was in airnist; hut lo! an behowld you, whin that was all settled to his intire satisfaction, the raslikill ov a ghost, or a divil as ho said he was, threw away his white sheet, an took off his head, and then begun to set up a horse laugh at meself, and there, be jnbors, whin I looked agin I found to mo sorrow, that it was no ghost or divil at all, but only the gallows villain Micky Powers, who desarves to be hanged at laist, if not something worse, for playing such a (brick upon any dacint man : an makin it parjnry for him to take the smallest dhrop ov anything to comfort him for twelve long months, an a day at the ind of it.” “Well, but you didn’t, say anything about the beating, Paddy,” observed his worship, who had more than once insulted the the dignity of the bench, by laughing outright. "

“ No, in troth, your honor, for I thought you might have guessed all about that,” replied Pat “ for shure was’nt it enough to vex a saint out of glory to be thraited so ? I confess that I gave liim a rale broth ov a mallavoging; an I know that your honor will give me credit for it.” “Well, but your honor, it was cle wife’s fault,” exclaimed Micky Power, the first wag of whoso tongue proclaimed him to bo a thorough-blooded ‘Dublin Jackeen.’ ‘De devil’s in dat man ov mine, Micky,’ sez she. ‘Faix an,’ sez I, ‘l’d like to be in him nieself, for den I’d have plenty ov de true sort, and nottin to pay for it.’ ‘ Dat’s true enough, ’ sez she, ‘ hut’ll you help me to play him a thriek, ami I’ll give you a shillen?’ ‘Bedohoky, I will in welkins,’ sez I. So den she dresses meself in a sheet, wid a bandbox on me head, an I went accordin to instructions, an put Paddy through his facins, until we got de buck oath out ov him, an ined him a sober man in spite ov himself. But your worship, it’s all gammon about him savin so much, for he could hardly get a word out, eoz his teeth went chatter, chatter, chattel-, from the moment I towld him dat I was | goin to hang him by do fish hook over de slow fire.” “They didn’t, you gallows rnshkill!” exclaimed Paddy, with a throat full of indignation. “Be dus an be dat,” returned Mick, “an den down lie went on his marrow bones to me, an sed he’d give me all he had in (ho world if I would’nt ait him.” ‘ O conshumin to your sow], Micky, but. don’t be afther savin that ov me,” vociferated poor Pat, who was now evidently ashamed of becoming a laughing stock. “ Well if I don't asclf, it’s nottin but do trute for me any way,” responded Micky, “ an also don’t you remember whin you begun to confess your sins and towld me about runniu away wid de (inker’s wife from Munstrcven ?” “Oehone, ochonesighed poor Paddy, “but sbnre I might bettber have been run away wid the devil himself than thraited in this manner.” “Nevermind, Pat,” remarked the bench, “for it lias in all probability made a sober man of you.” “ S'o much the worse, your honor,” returned Paddy, “ for I haven't even the comfort ov bein able to dhrown me sorrow in anything that’s worth dhrinkin.” And then Micky said something else—and then Paddy retorted—and then Mr. Andrews promised the ghost another beating—and then bis worship dismissed the case, and then the belligerents went on their way as fast as their legs could carry them.