"An' the childer—what about thim?"
"They'd be no standin' 'em. Why, man alive, they'd be as proud as peacocks."
"D'ye think so?"
"Think so, no; I know so, sure!"
"That settles it. Say, Mr. Handy,"—addressing the manager,—"have yez a good fiddler that can play Irish chunes?"
At this juncture Weston took a hand in the discussion, and, with an anxious desire to solve the musical problem, suggested: "We'll fix that all right, all right, as we intend to have the Weston Philharmonic Handel and Hayden Society—I think that's the name of the union—to operate as an orchestra, and Herr Heintzleman, the leader, who is a corking good fiddler, will play the dance music for you."
"Heintzleman!" repeated Myles, in apparent disgust. "No, sur! No Heintzleman for mine. Not much! What! Have a Pennsylvania Dutchman play an Irish jig for me? Arrah, what the divil are yez all dreamin' about?"
"Hold on, Myles, hold on! Don't get mad. Keep yer shirt on," interposed McGowan, as a peacemaker. "Myles, you and Dinny Dempsey, the blind piper, used to be good friends. Now, suppose we get Dinny. How will he suit you?"
"Now yez are spakin' something like rayson, Ed McGowan. If Dinny Dimpsey does the piping work, I'll do the dancin'."
"Is that a go, Myles?"