“Whisht! masther dear,” he said, “would the rat poison taste much?”
“Poison? No. Who said a word about poison? I should only send them to sleep.”
“Oh!” said Tim, “a short slape; not the very long one. Would it taste, sor?”
“No, my man; why?”
“Thin, bedad, I have it. Ye nivver touched the shmall cakes for dinner: put some of the stuff into thim, and I’ll shtale out with a whole trayful and a bottle of wine from down below, jist as if it’s me being civil to the bastes, and I’ll offer ’em the wine, and they won’t touch it, but I will, and dhrink of it heartily. They won’t think there’s anny desait in it then, and I’ll offer ’em the cakes, and ate a shpare one or two that I’ll kape on one side.”
“Tim, you’re a scoundrel!” cried Mr Braine, excitedly.
“Sure, that’s what my mother always said, sor,” replied Tim, modestly; “but, masther dear, ye wouldn’t put any rat poi— shlaping stuff, I mane, into the wine.”
“And rob ourselves of our right hand?” said the doctor, warmly. “No!”
“Thank ye, sor,” said Tim. “I thought I’d say that, for ye may remimber once making a mistake, and nearly cut off your right hand—I mane meself.”
“It was not a mistake, Tim, but an experiment with one of the native medicines.”