“Ah, bad luck to it!” said Bryan, in disgust; “the pipe’s damaged intirely. Small pace to ye, Bob Mahone; for shure it was howlin’ and screechin’ at your wake like a born scrandighowl that broke it.”
“Never mind, lad; what remains of it is not bad,” said Stanley, laughing, as he proceeded to open the box containing his scientific instruments.
Meanwhile his wife and Edith wandered along the rocks picking up shells and pebbles; and the men dispersed, some to smoke and chat, others to search for eggs. Bryan and La Roche, who were both aspiring geniuses, and had formed a sort of rough attachment to each other, asked permission to take a walk to the point ahead, where they would wait for the canoes. Having obtained it, they set off at a good round pace, that would have been “throublesome to kape up,” as Bryan remarked, “with payse in yer shoes!”
“Why you come for to jine de company?” inquired La Roche, as they jogged along.
“Why? bekase I’d nothin’ else to do, as the ould song says. Ye see, Losh,” (Bryan had invented a contraction for his friend’s name, which he said was “convanient”)—“ye see, Losh, there may be more nor wan raison for a gintleman lavin’ his native land in order to thravel in furrin parts. It’s thrue I had nothin’ in the univarse to do, for I could niver git work nohow, an’ whin I got it I could niver kape it. I niver could onderstan’ why, but so it was. Nivertheless I managed to live well enough in the ould cabin wid the murphies—”
“Vat is murphies?” inquired La Roche.
“Bliss yer innocent face, don’t ye know it’s praties?”
“’Tis vat?”
“Praties, boy, or pit-taties, if I must be partic’lar.”
“Ah! goot, goot, I understan’—pettitoes. Oui, oui, ye call him pomme de terre.”