“Yes, me lady!” cried Patsy, nearly blubbering. “I don’t know which way to be answerin’ you, with her behint me tellin’ me to say one thing and me wantin’ to say another. Me name’s Patsy Rooney, and it’s wishin’ it’s at the divil I was!”
Fortunately Lady Seagrave could not catch the end of the sentence, but she made out the name.
“Patsy Rooney,” said she. “Well, we will call you Patsy for short. Are you a good boy, Patsy?”
“Yes, me lady,” replied he.
“And you would like to enter my service?”
“Yes, me lady.”
“Your father is alive and your mother is dead, I hear. I hope you have no evil companions in the village, for young boys left to their own resources, as you have no doubt been, often pick up most undesirable acquaintances.”
“No, me lady,” replied Patsy in a faltering voice, for he recalled to mind Con Cogan and Paddy Murphy and the promise he had made them to help them to get into the Big House and steal the jewellery of the “quality.” And here he was in the Big House, and going to be hired as page-boy—it seemed like fate.
“Do you smoke?” went on her ladyship.
“Now an’ again, mum—I mean, yes, me lady.”