'
How the puck he done it nobody knows; but by dad there was his little,
ragged, red poll, followed by the whole of his small body, seen coming out
o' that trap-loop there, that doesn't look much bigger than a
button-hole--and thin sitting astride the ould bit of rotten timbers, and
laffing like mad, was the tiny Masther Danny, robbing the nests, and
shouting with joy as he pulled bird after bird from their nate little
feather-beds. 'This is elegant,' says he; 'here's lashins of 'em.'
"'How many have you,' says Tom Sheeney.
"'Seven big uns--full fledged, wid feathers as black as the priest's
breeches on a Good Friday's fast.'
"'Seven is it?'
"'It is.'
"'Well, then, hand them in.'
"'By no manes.'
"'Why not?'
"'Seein they're as well wid me as you.
"'Give me my half then--that's your'--
"'Aisy wid you; who's had the trouble and the chance of breaking his
good-looking neck but me, Mr. Tim Sheeney.'
"'Devil a care I care; I'll have four, or I'll know why.'
"'That you'll soon do: I won't give 'em you.'
"'Aint I holding the wood?'
"'By coorse you are; but aint I sitting outside upon it, and by the same
token unseating my best breeches.'
"'I bid you take care; give me four.'
"'Ha, ha! what a buck your granny was, Mistet Tim Sheeney; it's three
you'll have, or none.'
"'Then by the puck I'll let you go.
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