Tom. Nonsense! Who’d take me for a bishop?
O’Fi. Then try again. Mr. and Mrs. German Reed.
Tom. Don’t be absurd.
O’Fi. Well, once more. Major-Gineral Arthur Fitzpatrick. What d’ye say to that?
Tom. But I don’t look like a major-general.
O’Fi. Well, sorr, and what of that? I don’t look like a lieutenant-colonel, do I?
Tom. No, you don’t; but a major-general in broken boots!
O’Fi. Sure it’s where yer corns have been shootin’ through. Ye wouldn’t have a major-gineral with corns that couldn’t shoot, I suppose?
Tom. No!
O’Fi. Now, sorr, it’ll take a mighty deal of argument to pursuade me that you’re not Major-Gineral Arthur Fitzpatrick in broken boots. Now, I’ve the credit of the surrvice at stake, and when I see a major-gineral in broken boots me harrut bleeds for him, and I long to allow him a pound a week, sorr—a pound a week—to keep up his military position.