]
There was not a nicer boy in all Ireland than Pat, and clever at his
trade too, if only he'd had one.
But from his cradle he learned nothing (small blame to him with no one
to teach him!), so when he came to years of discretion, he earned his
living by running messages for his neighbours; and Pat could always be
trusted to make the best of a bad bargain, and bring back all the
change, for he was the soul of honesty and good-nature.
It's no wonder then that he was beloved by every one, and got as much
work as he could do, and if the pay had but fitted the work, he'd have
been mighty comfortable; but as it was, what he got wouldn't have kept
him in shoe-leather, but for making both ends meet by wearing his
shoes in his pocket, except when he was in the town, and obliged to
look genteel for the credit of the place he came from.
Well, all was going on as peaceable as could be, till one market-day,
when business (or it may have been pleasure) detained him till the
heel of the evening, and by nightfall, when he began to make the road
short in good earnest, he was so flustered, rehearsing his messages to
make sure he'd forgotten nothing, that he never bethought him to leave
off his brogues, but tramped on just as if shoe-leather were made to
be knocked to bits on the king's highway.
And this was what he was after saying:
"A dozen hanks of grey yarn for Mistress Murphy."
"Three gross of bright buttons for the tailor.
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