“The top o’ the mornin’ to yees,” said the man, pulling off his hat as he entered.
“Good-morning, friend,” said Ned, as Tom Collins rose, shouldered his pick and shovel, and left the hut. “You are punctual, and deserve credit for so good a quality. Pray, sit down.”
“Faix, then, I don’t know what a ‘quality’ is, but av it’s a good thing I’ve no objection,” replied the man, taking a seat on the edge of the bed which Tom had just vacated. “I wos wantin’ to ax ye, sir, av ye could put in me pick and shovel in the lan’scape.”
“In the landscape, Pat!” exclaimed Ned, addressing his visitor by the generic name of the species; “I thought you wanted a portrait.”
“Troth, then, I don’t know which it is ye call it; but I wants a pictur’ o’ meself all over, from the top o’ me hat to the sole o’ me boots. Isn’t that a lan’scape?”
“No, it’s a portrait.”
“Then it’s a porthraite I wants; an’ if ye’ll put in the pick and shovel, I’ll give ye two dollars a pace for them.”
“I’ll put them in, Pat, for nothing,” replied Ned, smiling, as he commenced his sketch. “I suppose you intend to send this to some fair one in old Ireland?”
Pat did not reply at once. “Sure,” said he, slowly, “I niver thought of her in that way before, but maybe she was fair wance, though she’s been a’most as black as bog-oak for half-a-cintury. It’s for me grandmother I want it.”
“Your grandmother! that’s curious, now; the last man I painted meant to send the likeness to his mother.”