'To be sure, my darlin' Puddock,' replied O'Flaherty, 'it was that
cursed little French whipper-snapper, with his monkeyfied
intherruptions; be the powers, Puddock, if you knew half the mischief
that same little baste has got me into, you would not wondher if I
murthered him. It was he was the cause of my jewel with my cousin, Art
Considine, and I wanting to be the very pink of politeness to him. I
wrote him a note when he came to Athlone, afther two years in France,
and jist out o' compliment to him, I unluckily put in a word of French:
come an' dine, says I, and we'll have a dish of chat. I knew u-n p-l-a-t
(spelling it), was a dish, an' says I to Jerome, that pigimy (so he
pronounced it) you seen here at the door, that's his damnable name,
what's _chat_ in French--c-h-a-t--spelling it to him; "sha," says he;
"sha?" says I, "spell it, if you plase," says I; "c-h-a-t," says he, the
stupid old viper. Well, I took the trouble to write it out, "un plat de
chat;" "is that right?" says I, showing it to him. "It is, my lord,"
says he, looking at me as if I had two heads. I never knew the manin' of
it for more than a month afther I shot poor Art through the two calves.
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