“Faix, it’s he’ll be mad thin, when he finds she’s taken up with the likes of the widdy Kelly!”
“And ain’t she betther there, nor being murthered up here? He’d be killing her out and out some night.”
“Well, but Terry, he’s not so bad as all that; there’s worse than him, and ain’t it rasonable he shouldn’t be quiet and asy, and she taking up with the likes of Martin Kelly?”
“May be so; but wouldn’t she be a dale happier with Martin than up here wid him? Any ways it don’t do angering him, so, get him the tay, Judy.”
It was soon found that this was easier said than done, for Anty, in her confusion, had taken away the keys in her pocket, and there was no tea to be had.
The bell was now rung, and, as Barry had gradually re-assured himself, rung violently; and Terry, when he arrived distracted at the bed-room door, was angrily asked by his thirsty master why the tea didn’t appear? The truth was now obliged to come out, or at any rate, part of it: so Terry answered, that Miss Anty was out, and had the keys with her.
Miss Anty was so rarely out, that Barry instantly trembled again. Had she gone to a magistrate, to swear against him? Had she run away from him? Had she gone off with Martin?
“Where the d––––l’s she gone, Terry?” said he, in his extremity.
“Faix, yer honour, thin, I’m not rightly knowing; but I hear tell she’s down at the widow Kelly’s.”
“Who told you, you fool?”