“At you not bein’ able to sleep for the rats!” returned the boy. “It’s the way with everybody who comes to stay with us, at first, but they get used to it at last.”
“Are the rats then so numerous?” asked Jackman.
“Swarmin’, all over! Haven’t you heard them yet?”
“Well, yes, I heard them scampering soon after I went to bed, but I thought it was kittens at play in the room overhead, and soon went to sleep. But they don’t come into the rooms, do they?”
“Oh, no—I only wish they would! Wouldn’t we have a jolly hunt if they did? But they scuttle about the walls inside, and between the ceilings and the floors. And you can’t frighten them. The only thing that scared them once was the bag-pipes. An old piper came to the house one day and played a great deal, and we heard nothing more of the rats for two or three weeks after that.”
“Sensible bastes,” remarked Quin, handing the rod to his master; “an’ a sign, too, that they’ve got some notion o’ music.”
“Why, Quin, I thought you had bag-pipes in Ireland,” said Jackman, as he fastened a large fly to his line.
“An’ that’s what we have, sor; but the Irish pipes are soft, mellow, gentle things—like the Irish girls—not like them big Scotch bellows that screech for all the world like a thousand unwillin’ pigs bein’ forced to go to markit.”
“True, Quin; there’s something in that. Now then, both of you stand close to me—a little behind—so; it’s the safest place if you don’t want to be hooked, and be ready with the gaff, Junkie,” said the fisher, as he turned a critical eye on the water and made a fine cast over what he deemed the most likely part of the pool.
“Father never rose a fish there,” said Junkie, with a demure look.