"The Markis of Cork," suggested one of the boys.
"And sometimes I expect to come in for a lot of money, if I don't miss of it."
"When you do, just treat a feller, will you?" said Jerry.
"Course I will. I was born in a big castle made of stone, and used to go round dressed in welvet, and had no end of nice things, till one day a feller that had a spite ag'in the Markis carried me off, and brought me to America, where I had to go to work and earn my own livin'."
"Why don't you write the Markis, and get him to send for you?" asked Jerry.
"'Cause he can't read, you spalpeen! What 'ud be the use of writin' to him?"
"Maybe it's the fault of your writin', Tim."
"Maybe it is," said Tim. "When the Markis dies I'm going back, an' I'll invite you all to come an' pass a week at Castle McQuade."
"Bully for you, Tim! Now, Dutchey, tell us your story."
Dutchey was a boy of ten, with a full face and rotund figure, whose English, as he had been but two years in the country, was highly flavored with his native dialect.