turnscrew at Andy's knuckles.

"Shure, I'll save you the trouble o' rubbin' that, Misther Dick, if you
let me; here's the shabby leather."

"I wouldn't let your clumsy fist near it, Andy, nor your _shabby_
leather, you villain, for the world. Go get me some oil."

Andy went on his errand, and returned with a can of lamp-oil to Dick,
who swore at him for his stupidity; "The divil fly away with you!--you
never do anything right; you bring me lamp-oil for a pistol."

"Well, sure I thought lamp-oil was the right thing for burnin'."

"And who wants to burn it, you savage?"

"Aren't you going to fire it, sir?"

"Choke you, you vagabond," said Dick, who could not resist laughing,
nevertheless; "be off, and get me some sweet oil; but don't tell any
one what it's for."

Andy retired, and Dick pursued his polishing of the locks. Why he used
such a blundering fellow as Andy for a messenger might be wondered at,
only that Dick was fond of fun, and Andy's mistakes were a particular
source of amusement to him, and on all occasions when he could have
Andy in his company he made him his attendant. When the sweet oil was
produced, Dick looked about for a feather; but, not finding one,
desired Andy to fetch him a pen. Andy went on his errand, and returned,
after some delay, with an ink bottle.

"I brought you the ink, sir; but I can't find a pin."

"Confound your numskull! I didn't say a word about ink--I asked for a
pen."

"And what use would a pin be without ink, now I ax yourself, Misther
Dick?"

"I'd knock your brains out if you had any, you _omadhaun_! Go along,
and get me a feather, and make haste."

Andy went off, and having obtained a feather, returned to Dick, who
began to tip certain portions of the lock very delicately with oil.

"What's that for, Misther Dick, sir, if you plaze?"

"To make it work smooth."

"And what's that thing you're grazin' now, sir?"

"That's the tumbler."

"O Lord! a tumbler--what a quare name for it. I thought there was no
tumbler but a tumbler for punch."

"That's the tumbler you would like to be cleaning the inside of, Andy."

"Thrue for you, sir. And what's that little thing you have your hand on
now, sir?"

"That's the cock."

"Oh, dear, a cock! Is there e'er a hin in it, sir?"

"No, nor a chicken either, though there _is_ a feather."

"The one in your hand, sir, that you're grazin' it with?"

"No: but this little thing--that is called the feather-spring."

"It's t