“What’s the matter over there?” said Muckle. “Have you filled your basket, Jiggins?”
“Not yet. I’m busy filling Pat,” said Jiggins. “Hallo, Pat, you’re slow about it.”
“Niver fare. Slow is it? Thin I’ll be up wid ye before long. On’y give me time, as the schoolmaster said when they wor examinin’ him on the alphabet.”
“All right. But while I’m waiting, I’ll put these in the basket,” said Jiggins; and he began to fill his basket from the pile.
“How can I ate them when you’re putting them in the basket?” said Pat.
“I’ll dig up plenty more—enough to keep you going.”
But Jiggins was tired; and after digging up some more he found the sand tinged red. To his amazement he saw that his nails were worn away, and were now bleeding. His fingers’ ends began to smart with acute pain, and he was compelled to desist.
“I think I’ll be off,” said he. “Pat, you may eat from the basket.”
“From the basket, is it? Not a bit of it,” said Pat; “I’ll only eat from your scratching.”
“I’ve scratched the basket full for you, and that’s enough. In fact it’s too much,” he added, as he felt fresh stings on his finger tips. “Besides, I’ve my doubts about it.”