"I don't care what ye call 'em," said Bridget; "only kape the things in
yer pocket, and don't bother me with 'em."

"Who 's bothering you?" said Oscar; "me 'pays' don't make any
dirt--they 're just as clean as your floor."

"Ye 're a sassy b'y, that's jist what ye are."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

"Faith, if it was me that had the doin' of it, I bet I 'd larn ye
better manners, ye great, impudent good-for-nothin', if I had to bate
yer tin times a day."

"You would n't, though, would you?" said Oscar; and he continued the
shower of peas until he had exhausted his stock, and then picked most
of them up again, to serve for some future occasion. He had hardly
finished this last operation, when his mother, who had been out,
returned home. As soon as she entered the kitchen, George began to
pour out his complaints to her.

"Mother," he said, "Oscar 's been plaguing us like everything, all the
evening. He got me down on the floor, and rubbed a hot pepper on my
mouth, and tried to make me eat it. And he's been rummaging all round
the kitchen, trying to find some pie. And then he went to shooting
peas at us, and he got Bridget real mad, and Ralph had to clear out, to
study his lesson. I told him--"

"There, there, George, that will do," replied his mother; "I am sick of
hearing these complaints. Oscar, why is it that I can't stir out of