"Ah, better ask Nicholas," answered the priest.
But Nicholas was absorbed in his carving.
Again Mr. O'Flynn obliged, roaring with great satisfaction:
"'I'm a stout rovin' blade, and what matther my name,
For I ahlways was wild, an' I'll niver be tame;
An' I'll kiss putty gurrls wheriver I go,
An' what's that to annyone whether or no.
Chorus.
"'Ogedashin, den thashin, come, boys! let us drink;
'Tis madness to sorra, 'tis folly to think.
For we're ahl jolly fellows wheriver we go—
Ogedashin, den thashin, na boneen sheen lo!'"
Potts was called on. No, he couldn't sing, but he could show them a trick or two. And with his grimy euchre-deck he kept his word, showing that he was not the mere handy-man, but the magician of the party. The natives, who know the cards as we know our A B C's, were enthralled, and began to look upon Potts as a creature of more than mortal skill.
Again the Boy pressed Nicholas to dance. "No, no;" and under his breath: "You come Pymeut."
Meanwhile, O'Flynn, hugging the pleasant consciousness that he had distinguished himself—his pardner, too—complained that the only contribution Mac or the Boy had made was to kick up a row. What steps were they going to take to retrieve their characters and minister to the public entertainment?
"I've supplied the decorations," said Mac in a final tone.