“Plenty of the more, and very little of the less,” said Peace.
“Oh, bedad, that’s thrue enough,” returned Mr. Macarty. Well, the wan-legged man took to futtin’ it in the Highland fling, and pounding away like a pavior on his wooden leg, and Biddy all the time turnin’ the handle of a machine like a young winnowing machine, and gettin’ illigant music out of the same. It wasn’t long before the people began to step up in earnest. First one and two, then in bunches, till the intarior of the carrywan was nigh thronged. I wish they’d do the same thing now. But the wan-legged man every now and then would quit dancin’ and come inside and pack them like pickled herrins, to make room for more; puttin’ all the tall ones in the back, an’ all the short ones in front. Well, while they wor waitin’, an’ the showman outside screechin’ always that he was just goin’ to begin, whether it was the trampin’ an’ the talkin’ that woke him, I dunna, but anyhow Jack began to mutter to himself, an’ snore that sthrong that the whole convaniency thrimbled.
“My, oh,” says the people, “what’s that?”
An’ some said it was the Injin juggler; an’ more said it was some other wild baste roarin’.
“I’m fearful,” says one.
“I’ll not stay,” says another.
“Here, misther, let me out,” says another.
“What’s the matther?” says the showman.
Whin they tould him, he was fairly amplushed, not knowin’ how to get out of it, for he was afeard of ruinin’ the characther of the show, eyther by lettin’ them go in a fright, or lettin’ on that it was only a dhrunken man.
“Lave it to me,” says the wan-legged man in a whisper.