“Sure,” he said, “I thought I’d take a fishing-line and a shtick, and go to the big pool by the little river over yonder, and catch a few of the fish things; bad cess to ’em, they’re no more like the fine salmon and throut of my own country than this baste of a place is its aiqual.”
“Well, Dinny, and you went and didn’t catch anything,” said Dick.
“Sure, Masther Dick, an’ you weren’t there,” said Dinny; “but ye’re right there; I didn’t catch a single fish, for the little gintlemen wouldn’t let me.”
“Little gentlemen, Dinny?” said Mr Rogers eagerly. “Did you see any natives?”
“An’ is it natives ye’d call the dirthy undersized little craytures?” cried Dinny indignantly. “Sure I’d take a couple of ’em up under my arms and run away wid ’em.”
“But you say they interfered with you, and wouldn’t let you fish,” said Mr Rogers.
“Faix, sor, an’ that’s what they did. Ye know the big pool.”
“To be sure,” said Mr Rogers. “There are silurus in it.”
“Are there though, sor?” said Dinny. “And there’s the big rocks up behind it, where the prickly trees wid red flowers and no leaves at all grow.”
“Yes, I know the place,” said Mr Rogers impatiently; “go on.”