"Divil a taste, as smart as you think yourself, Masther Ratty; you call yourselves gentlemen, and that's not your proper name."
Ratty, who was scraping triangles on the door with a piece of broken brick, at once converted his pencil into a missile, and let fly at the head of the tinker, who seemed quite prepared for such a result, for, raising the kettle he was mending, he caught the shot adroitly, and the brick rattled harmlessly on the tin.
"Ha!" said the tinker, mockingly, "you missed me, like your mammy's blessin';" and he pursued his work.
"What a very odd name he calls you," said Furlong, addressing young O'Grady.
"Ratty," said the boy. "Oh, yes, they call me Ratty, short for Horatio. I was called Horatio after Lord Nelson, because Lord Nelson's father was a clergyman, and papa intends me for the Church."
"And a nate clargy you'll make," said the tinker.
"And why do they call you milline'?" inquired Furlong. The old man looked up and grinned, but said nothing.
"You'll know before long, I'll engage," said Ratty; "won't he, Fogy? You were with old Gran' to-day, weren't you?"
"Yes."
"Did she sing to you 'The lass with the delicate air'?" said the boy, putting himself in the attitude of a person playing the guitar, throwing up his eyes, and mimicking the voice of an old woman—