"Oh, you'll find out that, and more too, if you live long enough," was the answer. Then turning to the tinker, he said, "Have you any milliner work in hand, Fogy?"
"To be sure I have," answered the tinker; "who has so good a right to know that as yourself? Throth, you've little to do, I'm thinkin', when you ax that idle question. Oh, you're nate lads! And would nothin' sarve you but brakin' the weathercock?"
"Oh, 't was such a nice cock-shot; 't was impossible not to have a shy at it," said Ratty, chuckling.
"Oh, you're nice lads!" still chimed in the tinker.
"Besides," said Ratty, "Gusty bet me a bull-dog pup against a rabbit, I could not smash it in three goes."
"Faix, an' he ought to know you betther than that," said the tinker; "for you'd make a fair offer[17] ] at anything, I think, but an answer to your schoolmasther. Oh, a nate lad you are—a nate lad!—a nice clargy you'll be, your rivirence. Oh, if you hit off the tin commandments as fast as you hit off the tin weathercock, it's a good man you'll be—an' if I never had a headache till then, sure it's happy I'd be!"
"Hold your prate, old Growly," said Ratty; "and why don't you mend the weathercock?"
"I must mend the kittle first—and a purty kittle you made of it!—and would nothing sarve you but the best kittle in the house to tie to the dog's tail? Ah, Masther Ratty, you're terrible boys, so yiz are!"
"Hold your prate, you old thief!—why wouldn't we amuse ourselves?"
"And huntin' the poor dog, too."