“I say, Losh,” cried Bryan to his companion, whose head was at the moment hid from view in a cloud of steam that ascended from a large pot over which he bent, apparently muttering incantations.
“Vell, fat you want?”
“Faix, and it’s just fat that I don’t want,” said Bryan, pointing, as he spoke, to the large pudding, which, being much too large for the kettle, was standing on the rim thereof like the white ball of foam that caps a tankard of double X. “It’s more nor twice too fat already. The kittle won’t hould it, no how.”
“Oh, stuff him down, dat is de way,” suggested La Roche.
“Stuff it down, avic, an’ what’s to come o’ the wather?” said Bryan.
“Ah! true, dat is perplexible, vraiment.”
At this moment the large pot boiled over and a cloud of scalding steam engulfed the sympathetic Frenchman, causing him to yell with mingled pain and rage as he bounded backwards.
“Musha! but ye’ll come to an early death, Losh, if ye don’t be more careful o’ yer dried-up body.”
“Taisez vous, donc,” muttered his companion, half angrily.
“Taisin’ ye? avic, sorra wan o’ me’s taisin’ ye. But since ye can’t help me out o’ me throubles, I’ll try to help mysilf.”