"I see her now!" said he. But a few moments more showed him that unless Bess Avery had turned into a boy, or taken it into her head to put on a boy's dress, this was not his "missis," though it was undoubtedly his missis's basket that the lad carried on his arm, and carried with more ease than its rightful owner ever did.
"Well to be sure! What's up with Bess?" said Tom Avery.
The men all ceased their work, and gazed at the rapidly approaching stranger.
"Blessed hour!" cried a red-headed lad, whose voice proclaimed him an Irishman. "What 'll ye say if he's shoved her into the bog, and made love to the basket?"
A shout of laughter hailed this remark.
"The bog! What's a bog?—You'll mean the marsh, I suppose?" said one.
"And if he stole the basket, he would hardly have come here with it," said another.
"Well, how did he get it, then? Would Bess be very likely to give her basket to the like of he?"
"Look here, Paddy," said Tom Avery, "none of your cheek. My missis has another name besides Bess."
"And I've another name besides Paddy, which isn't me name at all! Larry Deasy, me name is, Mr. Avery."