“I’d be a butterfly, born in a bower.”
“You’d be a butterfly!” said the Dominie, taking old Tom literally, and looking at his person.
Young Tom roared, “Yes, sir, he’d be a butterfly, and I don’t see why he shouldn’t very soon. His legs are gone, and his wings aren’t come: so he’s a grub now, and that, you know, is the next thing to it. What a funny old beggar it is, father—aren’t it?”
“Tom, Tom, go forward, sir; we must shoot the bridge.”
“Shoot!” exclaimed the Dominie; “shoot what?”
“You aren’t afraid of fire-arms, are ye, sir?” inquired Tom.
“Nay, I said not that I was afraid of fire-arms; but why should you shoot?”
“We never could get on without it, sir; we shall have plenty of shooting, by-and-by. You don’t know this river.”
“Indeed, I thought not of such doings; or that there were other dangers besides that of the deep waters.”
“Go forward, Tom, and don’t be playing with your betters,” cried old Tom. “Never mind him, sir, he’s only humbugging you.”