“The Suff-Rage-Etts,” sez he.
“Oh, it’s yerself,” sez oi, turnin’ an’ foindin’ the dear ould lad besoide me.
“Yiss, ’tis me,” sez Silver Tongue, a smoile breakin’ over his gran’ ould face.
“Tell me, phat will we be afther doin’ wid thim Suff-Rage-Etts whin they brake out here?” asks he.
“Oi know phat we won’t do,” sez oi.
“Phat’s that?” sez the preemeer. Oi niver call him “Sir”; ’tis a disfigurement entoirely.
“Phat’s that,” sez he agin, “that we won’t do?” sez he.
“We won’t do phat we shud do,” sez oi. “Punish thim,” sez oi.
“Whoy man, punishin’ thim is no use at all, at all. They loike it. Shure didn’t they punish thim in London?”
“They did not,” sez oi.