“Hello, Bob,” called the Outlaws.
“Hello, ye young rascals.”
“I say, Bob, make us some boats an’ let’s have a race.”
“Sure an’ I will,” said Bob knocking out his pipe and taking a large penknife out of his pocket, “though it’s wastin’ me time ye are, as usual.”
He took up a piece of wood and began to whittle.
“How’s the squirrel, Bob?”
“Foine.”
“Bob, they’re building in the ivy on the Old Oak again.”
“Shure an’ I knew that before you did, me bhoy.”
But though he whittled and whistled Bob was evidently not his old self.