Then Frank went in and found his father seated alone in his magistrate's room. "This is bad, father," said Frank, taking him by the hand.
"Bad! yes, you may call it bad. I am ruined, I suppose. There are twenty heifers ready for market next week, and I am told that not a butcher in County Galway will look at one of them."
"Then you must send them on to Westmeath; I suppose the Mullingar butchers won't boycott you?"
"It's just what they will do."
"Then send them on to Dublin."
"Who's to take them to Dublin?" said the father, in his distress.
"I will if there be no one else. We are not going to be knocked out of time for want of two or three pairs of hands."
"There are two policemen here to watch the herd at night. They'd cut the tails off them otherwise as they did over at Ballinrobe last autumn. To whom am I to consign 'em in Dublin? While I am making new arrangements of that kind their time will have gone by. There are five cows should be milked morning and night. Who is to milk them?"
"Who is milking them?"
"Your sisters are doing it, with the aid of an old woman who has come from Galway. She says she has not long to live, and with the help of half-a-crown a day cares nothing for the Landleaguers. I wish someone would pay me half-a-crown a day, and perhaps I should not care."