“Who’d ha’ thought that of him? Thryin’ to rob a poor chap like Poof Evans! It’s worrus than wantin’ to dhrown old Docther Dhryer.”
“Patrick Murphy,” replied Zeb, “what do you know about war? Hullo, there goes poor Puff on his way home. I haven’t the heart even to try and comfort him. Tell you what I’ll do, Brother Todderley, I’ll give my share towards buying him the timber to build another boat.”
“You’re a good boy, Zeb,” responded the miller. “I’ll do my share, and he can have anything he wants out of my lumber. Do you hear that, Pat?”
“Troth an’ I do, sor,” replied Pat. “Wull it be the crukked shticks I’ll give him?”
“Crooked sticks!” exclaimed the miller.
“Sure an’ he’s one of ’em,” said Pat. “He niver’d worruk well with straight ones.”
“Never mind, Pat,” replied Zeb, “it’s a solemn thing for Puff. Just look at him. I never saw him walk so fast before.”
“Indade,” said Pat, “it’s ginerally walkin’ behind he’s been iver since I’ve known him.”
Plenty of sympathy poor Puff was getting, though he knew it not, but it would all have been too late to save his boat for him if it had not been for Bar and Val.
These latter had put in their time, before dinner, in a very vigorous process of taking possession of their room, which was all a schoolboy could or should have asked for, though hardly as luxurious in its aspect or appliances as the one Val Manning had been accustomed to at home.