“How dare you bring such a thing as that?” said the little man, in a great rage.
“Why, sir, you ax'd for a bootjack, sure, and I brought you the best I had—and it's not my fault it's bruk, so it is, for it wasn't me bruk it, but Biddy batin' the cock.”
“Beating the cock!” repeated the little man in surprise. “Bless me! beat a cock with a bootjack!—what savages!”
“Oh, it's not the hen cock I mane, sir,” said the gossoon, “but the beer cock—she was batin' the cock into the barrel, sir, wid the bootjack, sir.”
“That was decidedly wrong,” said Murphy; “a bootjack is better suited to a heel-tap than a full measure.”
“She was tapping the beer, you mean?” said the little man.
“Faix, she wasn't tapping it at all, sir, but hittin' it very hard, she was, and that's the way she bruk it.”
“Barbarians!” exclaimed the little man; “using a bootjack instead of a hammer!”
“Sure the hammer was gone to the priest, sir; bekase he wanted it for the crucifixion.”
“The crucifixion!” exclaimed the little man, horrified; “is it possible they crucify people?”