“You may say that,” rejoined Bob; “look at them rats.”
“Tony Dowlan’s a hard-drinking man, and his mother had fits.”
“Of the same sort,” said Bob.
“Well, then,” continued Dick, “there’s no knowing—he may be dead—if so, how could he cut our hair?”
Here Dick, like Brutus, paused for a reply. Bob produced one.
“It’s a good scheme, but it won’t do; the likes of him never does anything he’s wanted to. He’s the contrariest ould thief in Ireland! I wish mama hadn’t got a party; we’d do well enough but for that. Never mind, boys, I’ve got it. There’s Mikey Brian, he’s the boy!
“What for?”
“To cut the hair of the whole of us.”
“He can’t do it.”
“Can’t! wait, a-cushla, till I tell you, or, what’s better, show you. Come now, you devils. Look at the heels (Rasper’s and Scrub’s) of them ponies! Did ever you see anything like them!—look at the cutting there—Tony Dowlan never had the knack o’ that tasty work in his dirty finger and thumb—and who done that? Why Mikey Brian—didn’t I see him myself; and isn’t he the boy that can ‘bang Bannaker’ at anything! Oh! he’ll cut us elegant!—he’ll do the squad for a fi’penny—and then, lads, there’s them five others will be just one a-piece to buy gut and flies! Come on, you Hessians!”