“Yes; but when you do get a shot, it’s at big game, Dinny.”
“Yis, sor, but then it’s very seldom,” said the sentry, with a roguish twinkle of the eye.
“I can’t bear this much longer, Bart,” whispered Abel. “When I say Now! rush at them both with your hoe.”
“Wait till he’s going to shoot, then,” growled Bart.
The overseer bent down, and, sheltering himself beneath the tree, placed his hands out in the sunshine, one holding a roughly rolled cigar, the other a burning-glass, with which he soon focussed the vivid white spot of heat which made the end of the cigar begin to smoke, the tiny spark being drawn into incandescence by application to the man’s lips, while the pleasant odour of the burning leaf arose.
“Sure, an’ that’s an illigant way of getting a light, sor,” said the sentry.
“Easy enough with such a hot sun,” said the overseer, complacently.
“Hot sun, sor! Sure I never carry my mushket here widout feeling as if it will go off in my hands; the barl gets nearly red-hot!”
“Yah! Don’t point it this way,” said the overseer, smoking away coolly. “Well, can you see anything?”
“Divil a thing but that noisy little omadhaun of a bird. Sure, she’d be a purty thing to have in a cage.”