It tasted like a
compound of pork grease and tobacco juice. "Well, Monaghan, if this
be maple sugar, I never wish to taste any again."
"Och, bad luck to it!" said the lad, flinging it away, plate and
all. "It would have been first-rate but for the dirthy pot, and the
blackguard cinders, and its burning to the bottom of the pot. That
owld hag, Mrs. R - -, bewitched it with her evil eye."
"She is not so clever as you think, John," said I, laughing. "You
have forgotten how to make the sugar since you left D - -; but let us
forget the maple sugar, and think of something else. Had you not
better get old Mrs. R - - to mend that jacket for you; it is too
ragged."
"Ay, dad! an it's mysel' is the illigant tailor. Wasn't I brought up
to the thrade in the Foundling Hospital?"
"And why did you quit it?"
"Because it's a low, mane thrade for a jintleman's son."
"But, John, who told you that you were a gentleman's son?"
"Och! but I'm shure of it, thin. All my propensities are gintale.
I love horses, and dogs, and fine clothes, and money. Och! that
I was but a jintleman! I'd show them what life is intirely, and
I'd challenge Masther William, and have my revenge out of him
for the blows he gave me."
"You had better mend your trousers," said I, giving him a tailor's
needle, a pair of scissors, and some strong thread.
