"That's once for each day, and siven days makes a week, does n't it?"
"Hi never wuz a good 'and hat arithmetic, but Hi 'as faith in the correctness of your calculation," responded Buster.
"Siven times has she called and so disapinted each time that he has n't returned. Did yez give her his adthress?"
"Hi did not, coz has 'ow Hi expected 'im 'ome hevery day. Hit 'll do 'er good, Mrs. Malone. Disappointments is disciplinationary, hand disciplination his wot womens need. Hit mikes 'em contented like. Oh, Hi tells yer, Mrs. Malone, my wife 'll be han 'appy female. She'll 'ave a master, she will."
Mrs. Malone gave the boy a vigorous push that sent him staggering, and as Lord Castlereagh neglected to get out of the way, boy and dog suddenly assumed recumbent and by no means graceful attitudes upon the floor.
"Arrah, get out o' thot," she remarked, complacently viewing the disaster she had wrought.
"My heye!" said Buster, in an astonished tone, "wot his this hany 'ow? His hit according to London prize ring rules, hor just knock down hand drag habout till death do hus part?"
"Give me no more airs, you little puckorn. The size of yez, talking about the holy state of matrimony!" said Mrs. Malone, rebukingly, as Buster climbed up to his feet, slightly jarred by the force with which he had taken his seat. "Did yez tell Mr. Moore that the young lady called?"
"No, Hi did not, Mrs. Malone, you hinquisitive ole party."
"Why not, me bucko?"