“Down to Killarney,” cried one; “begorra, I wonder ye didn't say Kenmare when ye war about it—the devil a less than ten miles it is.”
“Eyah! I'll like to see my own four bones going the same road; sorra a house the whole way where there's a drop of milk or a pratie.”
“That's the charity to the poor, I suppose,” said the fat fellow of the night-cap. “'Tis wishing it I am, the same charity.”
“We wor to bring the doctor on our back, I hope,” said a cripple in a bowl.
“Did ever man hear or see the like o' this?” exclaimed M'Nab, as with uplifted hands he stared in wonderment around him. “One wad na believe it.”
“True for you, honey,” joined in one of the group. “I'm fifty-three years on the road, and I never heerd of any one askin' us to do a hand's turn, afore.”
“Out of my sight, ye worthless ne'er-do-weels; awa wi ye at once and for ever. I'll send twenty miles round the country, but I'll hae a mastiff here, 'ill worry the first o' ye that dares to come near the house.”
“On my conscience, it will push you hard to find a wickeder baste nor yourself.”
“Begorra, he won't be uglier any how.”
And with these comments, and the hearty laughter that followed, the tattered and ragged group defiled out of the yard with all the honours of war, leaving Sir Archy alone, overwhelmed with astonishment and anger.