"La la! What a fool you are, my simple king! You've got the things end
foremost. Turn your head to the open air, for I go to light a cigarette,
and if you breathe this way, there will be a grand explode."

"Aw, yer thumb in yer eye, Pierre! It's like a baby's, me breath is, milk
and honey it is--aw yis; an' Father Corraine, that was doin' the trick
for the love o' God, says he to me, 'Little Tim Macavoy,'--aw yis, little
Tim Macavoy,--says he, 'when are you goin' to buckle to, for the love o'
God?' says he. Ashamed I was, Pierre, that Father Corraine should spake
to me like that, for I'd only a twig twisted at me hips to kape me
trousies up, an' I thought 'twas that he had in his eye! 'Buckle to,'
says I, 'Father Corraine? Buckle to, yer riv'rince?'--feelin' I was at
the twigs the while. 'Ay, little Tim Macavoy,' he says, says he, 'you've
bin 'atin' the husks av idleness long enough; when are you goin' to
buckle to? You had a kingdom and ye guv it up,' says he; 'take a field,
get a plough, and buckle to,' says he, 'an' turn back no more'--like
that, says Father Corraine; and I thinkin' all the time 'twas the want o'
me belt he was drivin' at."

Pierre looked at him a moment idly, then said: "Such a tom-fool! And
where's that grand leather belt of yours, eh, my monarch?"

A laugh shook through Macavoy's beard. "For the weddin' it wint: buckled
the two up wid it for better or worse--an' purty they looked, they did,
standin' there in me cinch, an' one hole left--aw yis, Pierre."

"And what do you give to Ida?" Pierre asked, with a little emphasis of
the branding-iron.

Macavoy got to his feet. "Ida! Ida!" said he. "Is that saddle for Ida? Is