Volume I Part 8 (2/2)
Andy went on his errand, and returned with a can of lamp-oil to d.i.c.k, who swore at him for his stupidity; ”The divil fly away with you!--you never do anything right; you bring me lamp-oil for a pistol.”
”Well, sure I thought lamp-oil was the right thing for burnin'.”
”And who wants to burn it, you savage?”
”Aren't you going to fire it, sir?”
”Choke you, you vagabond,” said d.i.c.k, who could not resist laughing, nevertheless; ”be off, and get me some sweet oil; but don't tell any one what it's for.”
Andy retired, and d.i.c.k pursued his polis.h.i.+ng of the locks. Why he used such a blundering fellow as Andy for a messenger might be wondered at, only that d.i.c.k was fond of fun, and Andy's mistakes were a particular source of amus.e.m.e.nt to him, and on all occasions when he could have Andy in his company he made him his attendant. When the sweet oil was produced, d.i.c.k looked about for a feather; but, not finding one, desired Andy to fetch him a pen. Andy went on his errand, and returned, after some delay, with an ink bottle.
”I brought you the ink, sir; but I can't find a pin.”
”Confound your numskull! I didn't say a word about ink--I asked for a pen.”
”And what use would a pin be without ink, now I ax yourself, Misther d.i.c.k?”
”I'd knock your brains out if you had any, you _omadhaun_! Go along, and get me a feather, and make haste.”
Andy went off, and having obtained a feather, returned to d.i.c.k, who began to tip certain portions of the lock very delicately with oil.
”What's that for, Misther d.i.c.k, sir, if you plaze?”
”To make it work smooth.”
”And what's that thing you're grazin' now, sir?”
”That's the tumbler.”
”O Lord! a tumbler--what a quare name for it. I thought there was no tumbler but a tumbler for punch.”
”That's the tumbler you would like to be cleaning the inside of, Andy.”
”Thrue for you, sir. And what's that little thing you have your hand on now, sir?”
”That's the c.o.c.k.”
”Oh, dear, a c.o.c.k! Is there e'er a hin in it, sir?”
”No, nor a chicken either, though there _is_ a feather.”
”The one in your hand, sir, that you're grazin' it with?”
”No: but this little thing--that is called the feather-spring.”
”It's the feather, I suppose, makes it let fly.”
”No doubt of it, Andy.”
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