“What have you read?” demanded Bob.
“On’y bits of old noospapers,” replied Pat, with a look of contempt, “an’ I don’t like readin’.”
“Don’t like it? Of course you don’t, you ignorant curmudgeon, if noospapers is all you’ve read. Now, Pat, I got this book, not for myself but a purpus for you.”
“Thankee for nothin’,” said Pat; “I doesn’t want it.”
“Doesn’t want it!” repeated Bob. “D’ee know that this is the very best book as ever was written?”
“You seems pretty cock-sure,” returned Pat, who was in a contradictory mood that day; “but you know scholards sometimes differ in their opinions about books.”
“Pat I’ll be hard upon you just now if you don’t look out!” said Bob seriously. “Howsever, you’re not so far wrong, arter all. People does differ about books, so I’ll only say that Robinson Crusoe is the best book as was ever written, in my opinion, an’ so it’ll be in yours, too, when you have read it; for there’s shipwrecks, an’ desert islands, an’ savages, an’ scrimmages, an’ footprints, an’—see here! That’s a pictur of him in his hairy dress, wi’ his goat, an’ parrot, an’ the umbrellar as he made hisself, a-lookin’ at the footprint on the sand.”
The picture, coupled with Bob Lumsden’s graphic description, had the desired effect. His little friend’s interest was aroused, and Pat finally accepted the book, with a promise to read it carefully when he should find time.
“But of that,” added Pat, “I ain’t got too much on hand.”
“You’ve got all that’s of it—four and twenty hours, haven’t you?” demanded his friend.