"What a very odd name he calls you," said Furlong, addressing young O'Grady.
"Ratty," said the boy. "Oh, yes, they call me Ratty, short for Horatio. I was called Horatio after Lord Nelson, because Lord Nelson's father was a clergyman, and papa intends me for the Church."
"And a nate clargy you'll make," said the tinker.
"And why do they call you milline'?" inquired Furlong. The old man looked up and grinned, but said nothing.
"You'll know before long, I'll engage," said Ratty; "won't he, Fogy? You were with old Gran' to-day, weren't you?"
"Did she sing to you 'The lass with the delicate air'?" said the boy, putting himself in the attitude of a person playing the guitar, throwing up his eyes, and mimicking the voice of an old woman--
"So they call'd her, they call'd her, The lass--the lass With a delicate air, De--lick-it--lick-it--lick-it The lass with a de--lick-it air."
The young rascal made frightful mouths, and put out his tongue every time he said "lick-it," and when he had finished, asked Furlong, "Wasn't that the thing?" Furlong told him his grandmamma had been going to sing it, but this pleasure had been deferred till to-morrow.
"Och! murder! murder! I'm sorry I told you."
"Is it so _vewy_ pa'ticula', then?" inquired Furlong.
"Oh, you'll find out that, and more too, if you live long enough," was the answer. Then turning to the tinker, he said, "Have you any milliner work in hand, Fogy?"
"To be sure I have," answered the tinker; "who has so good a right to know that as yourself? Throth, you've little to do, I'm thinkin', when you ax that idle question. Oh, you're nate lads! And would nothin' sarve you but brakin' the weathercock?"
"Oh, 't was such a nice cock-shot; 't was impossible not to have a shy at it," said Ratty, chuckling.
"Oh, you're nice lads!" still chimed in the tinker.
"Besides," said Ratty, "Gusty bet me a bull-dog pup against a rabbit, I could not smash it in three goes."
"Faix, an' he ought to know you betther than that," said the tinker; "for you'd make a fair offer[17] at anything, I think, but an answer to your schoolmasther. Oh, a nate lad you are--a nate lad!--a nice clargy you'll be, your _rivirence_. Oh, if you hit off the tin commandments as fast as you hit off the tin weathercock, it's a good man you'll be--an' if I never had a headache till then, sure it's happy I'd be!"