“Come, boys, rehearse—(buz, buz, buz)—I'll soon be after calling up the first spelling lesson—(buz, buz, buz)—then the mathematicians—book-keepers—Latinists and Grecians, successfully. (Buz, buz, buz)—Silence there below!—your pens! Tim Casey, isn't this a purty hour o' the day for you to come into school at; arraix, and what kept you, Tim? Walk up wid yourself here, till we have a confabulation together; you see I love to be talking to you.
“Sir, Larry Branagen, here; he's throwing spits at me out of his pen.”—(Buz, buz, buz.)
“By my sowl, Larry, there's a rod in steep for you.”
“Fly away, Jack—fly away, Jill; come again, Jack—”
“I had to go to Paddy Nowlan's for to-baccy, sir, for my father.” (Weeping with his hand knowingly across his face—one eye laughing at his comrades.)—
“You lie, it wasn't.”
“If you call me a liar agin, I'll give you a dig in the mug.”
“It's not in your jacket.”
“Isn't it?”
“Behave yourself; ha! there's the masther looking at you—ye'll get it now.”—