"Oh dear, a cock!—Is there e'er a hin in it, sir?"
"No, nor a chicken either, though there is a feather."
"The one in your hand, sir, that you're grazin' it with."
"No: but this little thing—this is called the feather-spring."
"It's the feather, I suppose, makes it let fly."
"No doubt of it, Andy."
"Well, there's some sinse in that name, then; but who'd think of sitch a thing as a tumbler and a cock in a pistle? And what's that place that opens and shuts, sir?"
"The pan."
"Well, there's sinse in that name too, bekaze there's fire in the thing; and it's as nath'ral to say pan to that as to a fryin'-pan—isn't it, Misther Dick?"
"Oh! there was a great gunmaker lost in you, Andy," said Dick, as he screwed on the locks, which he had regulated to his mind, and began to examine the various departments of the pistol-case, to see that it was properly provided. He took the instrument to cut some circles of thin leather, and Andy again asked him for the name "o' that thing."