“You lie!” replied Billy.
“Tell him,” said the sweep, addressing Mr Mullins.
The cobbler, glad for once to take the journalistic shine out of Billy, gave a detailed report of the capture of Paddy Murphy, to which Billy listened with deep attention and an asinine expression of wonder on his long yellow face, scratching his head now and then, and now and then uttering ejaculations of surprise.
“Is it the threwth you’re tellin’ me?” asked Billy, when the recital was over.
“It is.”
“And where did you get your information from?”
“Not from you,” replied the cobbler.
“No,” replied Billy, “for, if you had, you’d a’ got it right. Paddy’s in no cowl-hole, he’s locked in the pitato room of the Big House.”
“And where did you get your information from, may I ax?”
“From himself.”