“Yis, mesilf. He’s asleep. He won’t wake. I’ll rock him. It’ll be all right. And you hurry down, an hurry back.”
Captain Corbet looked a long time in doubt at Pat, meditating over this singular proposal.
“Wal,” said he, at last, “railly—it’s desput kind in you—but—a feyther’s feelins—air desput delicate things—but as you say—he’s asleep—bress his pooty face!—an he’ll stay asleep—and you’ll rock him—an watch over his infant slumbers. And I’m desput cur’ous—and so—why, railly, I declar’ ef I hain’t got half a mind to go—jest to please the boys.”
“Do,” said Pat, earnestly; “an make haste about it, too, for they’re dyin wid impatience, so they are.”
Captain Corbet gave an uneasy glance all around.
“Ah, come now, hurry up,” urged Pat, “an don’t be all night about it.”
“I feel dreadful oneasy,” said Captain Corbet, “about’ what I’m agoin for to do.”
“Onaisy, is it? Nonsense! Won’t I be here? Am I a Injin?”
“You’ll be kerful then—will ye?” said Captain Corbet, anxiously.
“Sure an I will.”