Patsy grinned.
“They’re in prizen,” said he.
“Who are in prison?” asked Mr Fanshawe.
“The childer.”
“Why, what are you talking about? I saw them looking out of a top window.”
“Faith, and they’re in prizen all the same,” said Patsy. “That was the windy Mr Robert kicked the futball through; and between that and Miss Doris hittin’ me a belt on the nose wid an arringe, the ould lady gave orders they wasn’t to stir out of the top of the house till to-morrow mornin’.”
Mr Fanshawe, remembering the potato that had hit him on the shoulder, began to form ideas of his own about the children of his cousin Robert.
“They must find it rather dull,” he said.
“Not they,” replied Patsy. “They always find something to be afther; on’y half an hour ago when I lift them they were settin’ the dolls’ house afire wid a tin of paraffin.”
“Good Heavens! You don’t mean to say you let them!”