"Misther Moore, he said I looked like a monkey the other day," answered Micky, harking back to an insult that had long rankled in his memory.
"He kicked me, he did," said Patsy, "and I gave him a oner in the neck for it, I did."
"Red-head!" ejaculated Micky in tones of scorn. "He wanted Milly to kiss him, the puckorn!"
"Which is Milly?" inquired Moore, scanning the other scholars interrogatively.
"I am," answered that young lady, delightfully free from embarrassment.
"I don't blame you at all, Patsy," observed the poet regarding the youthful belle with approval. "Are you desperately fond of her?"
"To be sure," responded Patsy, valiantly. "I 'm going to marry her."
"As though I 'd marry that," remarked Milly, in accents by no means admiring.
"Never mind that, Miss Milly! An honest man's love is not to be scorned even when it's in short breeches," said Moore, reprovingly. "So it is jealousy that is at the bottom of this quarrel? Faith, I 'll settle it right here. Neither of you lads shall have Milly. I 'll marry her myself."
"All right," said Milly, cocking her eye at Bessie, "if teacher has no objection, I haven't."