“No, no, Mike, I’ll have him! the poor angashore.”
“What’s that yer saying?”
“Yes, and give him whatever home I have, as long as he lives.”
“Faix, it’s well known he has nine lives! You and the white cat! Well, to be sure. A nice ornament he is to be transported over to England. I’m thinking they’ll get a cruel bad notion of the breed of Irish cats. But maybe he’s dead by now.”
“No. And I want you to go up to Biddy Grogan’s and tell her to bring him this evening in a basket, will ye?”
“’Tis a quare fancy ye have! But I’ll do yer commands. I wish it was meself yer ladyship was taking along wid her instead of an ould scorched tom-cat, wid a bad character.”
“Do not call me yer ladyship!”
“Arrah! an’ what else am I to call ye?”
“Mary.”
“Sure, how can I put such a lie in me mouth as that?—yer name being Joseline, and a quare one, too, and it was given ye within there in the drawing-room”—pointing to the apartment which harboured the boat—“and you were christened by the Reverend William Scott, in a great hurry, and out of the General’s old china punch-bowl.”