“Oh, Heavens!” exclaimed his grandmother.
“Yes, it is,” said Ratty, stoutly; “the tutor says I'm refractory when I behave ill; and he knows Latin better than you.”
“Ratty, Ratty! you are hopeless!” exclaimed his grandmamma.
“No, I am not,” said Ratty. “I'm always hoping. And I hope Uncle Robert will break his neck some day, and leave us his money.”
The old woman turned up her eyes, and exclaimed, “You wicked boy!”
“Fudge!” said Ratty; “he's an old shaver, and we want it; and indeed, gran, you ought to give me ten shillings for ten days' teaching, now; and there's a fair next week, and I want to buy things.”
“Ratty, I told you when you made me perfect in the use of my weapon I would pay you. My promise is sacred, and I will observe it with that scrupulous honour which has ever been the characteristic of the family; as soon as I hit something, and satisfy myself of my mastery over the weapon, the money shall be yours, but not till then.”
“Oh, very well,” said Ratty; “go on then. Ready—don't bring up your arm that way, like the handle of a pump, but raise it nice from the elbow—that's it. Ready—fire! Ah! there you blink your eye, and drop the point of your pistol—try another. Ready—fire! That's better. Now steady the next time.”