“Thrue, ma bohill! You’re right there; but there need be no throuble about the matther.”
“How?”
“Make the spalpeen challenge you. That’s betther—besides, it gives you the choice of waypons.”
“In what way can I do this?”
“Och! my innocent gossoon! Shure that’s as asy as tumblin’ from a haycock. Call him a liar; an’ if that’s not sufficiently disagraable, twake his nose, or squirt your tobacco in his ugly countenance. That’ll fetch him out, I’ll be bail for ye.
“Come along, my boy!” continued my ready counsellor, moving towards the door. “Where is this Mister Ringgowld to be sarched for? Find me the gint, and I’ll shew you how to scratch his buttons. Come along wid ye!”
Not much liking the plan of procedure, but without the moral strength to resist, I followed this impetuous son of a Celt through the doorway.