“Micky Finnegan!” roared Micky. “Mrs Kinsella, ma’am, pull him off me!”
“Lave him be, Patsy,” cried Mrs Kinsella, who was enjoying the fun as much as little Lord Gawdor.
“I will in a minit, when I gets his family tree out of him,” replied Patsy. “Answer up, Micky Finnegan—who was your gran’mother?”
“The ould goose,” blubbered Micky, who was now in tears.
“Was she always good to you?”
“She were.”
“Ain’t you ’shamed of yourself for cartin’ her about on your shoulder to sell her when she was dead of ould age and starvation?”
“I am.”
“Did she tell you before she died you weren’t fit to black the boots of Patsy Rooney?”
“She did.”