MRS FINNEGAN’S BOY
“Mrs Kinsella, ma’am,” said Patsy, as he was led along the corridor back
to the kitchen, “Mrs Kinsella, ma’am, what’s a page-boy?”
“You’re one,” replied Mrs Kinsella. “Now come along, and don’t be asking
me questions, for I have no time to waste. Here’s your room, and here’s
a suit belonging to William, the English page-boy that’s just been sent
off home again, being caught stealing the jam; whip into the suit, and
when you have it on you come into the kitchen and I’ll tell you what to
do next.”
She had opened the door of a small bedroom, and there on the bed lay a
page-boy’s suit, only waiting to be put on. Mrs Kinsella closed the door
and left Patsy alone to make his toilet.
A new suit of clothes was an event in Patsy’s life. The suit he had on
was an old suit of his father’s cut down. He could not remember ever
having had a suit of clothes made for him.
The clothes on the bed had not been made for him, it is true, but they
were nearly new. The jacket had two rows of buttons down the front, and
the trousers had a red stripe down the seams at the side. Patsy had
never seen the like of them before.
He got into them, and then he found that for all the buttons on the
jacket he could not button it. Holding it together in front he came down
the passage to the kitchen, and poked his head in at the half-open door.
“Mrs Kinsella, ma’am.”
“Yes, Patsy,” answered the cook; “what is it?”
“Is it fun you’re making of me?” asked Patsy.
“It’s jelly I’ll be makin’ of you with a rollingpin if you give me any
of your impudence,” replied Mrs Kinsella. “What do you mean stickin’
your ugly head in at the door and askin’ me such questions? Come in with
you, and give me no more of your sauce.”
“Sure, how can I come in wid me jacket unbuttoned?” asked Patsy. “It’s
buttons all over I am, and not a buttonhole can I find to stick one in.”
“Come here,” cried the cook, catching him by the forelock and dragging
him into the kitchen. “Do you see these?”—pointing to the hooks and eyes
down the edges of the jacket: “them’s hooks and eyes. Hold up your head,
now you’re fastened into your jacket, and off you go to the plate pantry
and help Mr James, the butler, to clean his silver; but first, before
you go, run into the stable-yard and fetch me a bucket of water.”
Patsy did as he was bid. He found a tin bucket in the yard and carefully
filled it at the water-tap by the stable door. When the bucket was full
he seized it by the handle and was just about to carry it back to the
kitchen, when who should come into the yard, with a goose swung over his
shoulder, but Micky Finnegan, son of Mrs Finnegan, the woman who had the
green-grocer’s shop at Castle Knock.
Micky was an old enemy of Patsy’s. He was a long-legged boy—in fact he
looked all legs and arms—a huge mouth and a squint were the next most
noticeable things about him. He was not good to look at, in fact he was
good for nothing except bullying boys smaller than himself, and
sometimes going on an errand for his mother.
The newcomer when he beheld Patsy in his new attire stood stockstill,
stared, and then burst into a wild yell of laughter.
Patsy’s red hair bristled up like the spines of a hedgehog, as it always
did when he was angry, but he said nothing.
“Hurroo!” shouted Mrs Finnegan’s boy, when he had recovered from his
simulated fit of laughter; “here’s Patsy Rooney burst out in buttons;
here’s Patsy Rooney drawing water for the maids. Where’s your broom,
Patsy? Where’s your dustpan and brush? Have yiz emptied the slops,
Patsy, and made the beds and turned down the quilts?”
“And what’s brought _you_ out to-day?” replied Patsy. “You’re afther
your time; this isn’t the fifth of Novimber, this isn’t Guy Fawkes Day.
Go back to your lumber-room, you stuffed straw imige, and wait till they
takes you out and rides you on a rail.”
“Carrots!” yelled the other, who was not gifted greatly with the art of
repartee; “who’ll buy carrots?”
“It’s ashamed of yourself you ought to be,” replied Patsy, in a tone of
virtuous disgust.
“And why is it ashamed of myself I ought to be?” queried the
unsuspecting Micky.
“For going about the country with your ould gran’mother slung over your
shoulder,” replied Patsy. “You weren’t so fond of her when she was
alive, seein’ you let her die of starvation and ould age, by the look of
her.”
This double insult levelled at himself and the goose he was carrying
took the wind out of Micky’s sails.
“Who are you talking to?” said he, shifting the goose from his left to
his right shoulder, and advancing towards Patsy.
“The son of the ould jackass that grazes on the common, I _b’lieve_,”
replied Patsy, raising his bucket; “though ’tis well known all over the
villige he disowns you.”
“Do you see this fist?” cried Micky, shaking a grimy fist in the other’s
face.
“I do. Do you see the water in this bucket?”
“I do.”
“Well, taste it!” cried Patsy, flinging it in his face.
The next moment the goose, swung like a club, caught Patsy on the side
of the head, nearly stunning him, and the next both boys were rolling on
the flags of the yard fighting like cats.
At this moment who should enter the stable-yard but Miss Kiligrew,
driving the governess-cart with the children, and at this moment also
the kitchen door opened, and Mrs Kinsella appeared to see what was
keeping Patsy so long in fetching the water.
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