“Oh, that's it—is it?” said Sir Marmaduke, accepting an explanation he was far from thoroughly understanding. “Then here's Jack Heffernan—what does this fellow mean by saying that a Berkshire pig is no good?”
“He only means, your honour, that he's too good for the place, and wants better food than the rest of the family.”
“The man's a fool, and must learn better. Lord Mudford told me that he never saw such an excellent breed, and his swine-herd is one of the most experienced fellows in England. Widow Mul—Mul—what?” said he, endeavouring to spell an unusually long name in the book before him—“Mulla——”
“Mullahedert, your honour,” slipped in Wylie, “a very dacent crayture.”
“Then why won't she keep those bee-hives; can't she see what an excellent thing honey is in a house—if one of her children was sick, for instance?”
“True for you, sir,” said Sam, without the slightest change of feature. “It is wonderful how your honour can have the mind to think of these things—upon my word, it's surprising.”
“Samuel M'Elroy refuses to drain the field—does he?”
“No, sir; but he says the praties isn't worth digging out of dry ground, nor never does grow to any size. He's a Ballyvourney man, too, sir.”
“Oh, is he?” said Sir Marmaduke, accepting this as a receipt in full for any degree of eccentricity.
“Shamus M'Gillicuddy—heavens what a name! This Shamus appears a very desperate fellow; he beat a man the other evening, coming back from the market.”