34 FARMING IT 



whereupon Pat tumbled off the load, spitting on 

 his hands and exclaiming, "Dom the moonkey, 

 lave me poonch th' Dago hid off him, whirjroo !" 

 And he jumped two feet in the air and cracked his 

 heels together. I violently restrained Pat and 

 ordered him on the load, which was good general- 

 ship on my part, as, from the neighboring lot, 

 twenty excited compatriots of the first gaudy 

 brigand came piling over the fence, and sur- 

 rounded us amid a torrent of Gallic expletives. 



"For the love of hivin, yer 'anner," pleaded 

 Pat, "lave me lick the twinty of thim, lave me 

 land one poonch on the dhirty moog of ould Plaid 

 Belly" ; by which appropriate title he designated 

 the premier brigand. 



"Keep quiet, Pat," I remonstrated, "this is a 

 case for arbitration." 



"Arbitration be dommed," growled Pat, "wan 

 good belt in th' gob of ould Plaid Belly wud do 

 th' job aisy." 



However, I refused Pat's modest request, and 

 raising my hand impressively, addressed the 

 leader in our best Exeter Cotton Mill French. 



"Messieurs, qu'avez vous m'en voudre; Ich 

 weiss nicht was zie meinen, dites-moi, pour 

 1'amour de Dieu. What is it that it is ?" 



Now this was so plain that even Pat was heard 

 to mutter, "Begob, he can talk Dago talk awl 

 right." 



