“What’s the matter, mah?” asked Mike, the oldest, looking up into his mother’s tearful eyes.
“Nothin’ at all, Mickey darlint; nothin’ but the warrum weather. Sure yer fatther’s always downhareted wid the hate, and it’s mesilf that do be shweatin’ around the eyes. Away wid yez now; back to yer play, me jewels, but kape forninst the shop.”
“I can’t play any good,” said Mike glumly.
“And why not?”
“’Cause Paddy’s got the roller-skate.”
Bridget swallowed the lump in her throat, and could not help thinking of the affluent past when the babies “was comin’,” and there was a whole pair of roller-skates in the family.
“Never moind, laddie,” she said, “be a good bye, and ye’ll have the handle iv the feather duster to play cat with.”
Mike danced for glee, for here was a joy hitherto tasted only in dreams. Ever since its detachment from the worn-out feathers the handle of the duster had been used as a rod of correction, often raised in warning but rarely brought down upon a naughty Tomato.
“Me want somethin’,” said little Biddy, an eloquent plea in her big black-walnut eyes, while Mike made off with the precious stick.
“Iv coorse ye do, me ruby, and somethin’ foine ye’ll have, be the Lord Alexander! Here, take ye this, and go beyandt to Signory Foli and buy the best bit iv wathermelyun she has on the boord. Moind ye get it ripe, and tell the signory if she gives ye annything else I’ll be down there and pull the false wig off her. Away wid ye now, and come back with the rind.”