“To Castle Knock,” replied Patsy.
“And what are you going to do with yourself when you get to Castle Knock?” asked Con.
“I’m goin’ to do me arrand.”
“Blisther you and your arrands!” shouted his uncle. “Talk English, will yiz, or I’ll prod the sinse out of you with the end of me blackthorn stick!”
“Ohone!” cried Patsy. “Sure, it’s skinned alive I’ll be if I’m not back by twelve with the ca’tridges for the guns that’s waitin’ at the post-office with the lethers for the Big House.”
“So they’ve made you the postman,” said Con.
“Bob Murphy’s laid up with the rheumatism,” replied Con’s nephew. “Crool bad he is; and me father says to me: ‘Away wid you, Patsy, to Castle Knock for the lethers, and ax thim has the ca’tridges for the guns come from Dublin, and fetch thim if they have. And if you drop wan of them it’s skinned alive you’ll be, or me name’s not Micky Rooney.’”
“Oh, he did, did he?” said Con.
“Them’s were his words,” said Patsy; “so I must be runnin’ on me arrand.”
“Oh, you must be runnin’ on your arrand, must you?” asked Con in a meditative tone.