“Oh, very well, if you like,” I answered, with equal indifference. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Sweeny.”
Mrs. Sweeny was taking a bowl from the dresser, from which haven of refuge she had driven her cat with one swing of her brawny arm. It shot past Willy out of the door, followed by a flying white streak, which inference rather than eyesight told me was composed of the pursuing Pat and Jinny.
“Look at that, now!” remarked the cat’s mistress; “that overbearin’ owld cat’d be sittin’ there, thwarting thim dogs, and she well able to run for thim; an’ I wouldn’t begridge them to ketch her nayther. She’s a little wandhering divil that have no call to the place.” She came forward with the bowl in her hand. “See here, Masther Willy; here’s eight beautiful pullet’s eggs, the first she iver laid, an’ you’ll carry them wesht to the house for Miss Sarsfield to ate for her brekfish—mind that, now!” She gave him a slap on the back. “Och, there’s no fear but he’ll mind!” she said, winking at me. “He’d do more than that for yourself, and small blame to him!”
Willy took the bowl from her without taking any notice either of the innuendo or the slap which accompanied it, and marched out of the house with sulky dignity.
CHAPTER XVII.
POTATO CAKES.
“The tenacious depths of the quicksand, as is usual in such cases, retained their prey.”