What a beautiful thing is faith!
"A pretty teacher beats the devil, Micky, and you have the prettiest in Ireland. I wish I could be taught by such a preceptress. I 'd need instruction both day and night, and that last is no lie, even at this day, if the lesson were to be in love," he added, a twinkle in his eyes, though his face was perfectly sober.
"Sure," said Micky, "she don't think you nade lessons. I heard her tell Squire Farrell's daughter blarney ran off your tongue like water off a duck's back."
"What is that?" said Moore. "I 'll have to investigate this matter thoroughly."
At this moment the metallic clang of an old fashioned hand-bell sounded faintly down the hillside mellowed into comparative melodiousness by the intervening distance.
"Ah," said Moore, "your absence has been reported to Mistress Dyke, and she has tolled the bell."
It seemed as though the young Irishman's execrable pun decided the ragged urchin that the way of the transgressor might be hard, for, without further hesitation, he took to his heels and fled in the direction of the schoolhouse.
After a moment's thought Moore followed him, beating time with the willow fishing-rod to the song which half unconsciously issued from his lips as he turned his steps in the direction of the headquarters of Mistress Bessie Dyke.
Tom Moore was going angling, but not for trout.
Chapter Two