He dwelt for a moment on the memory, and we made comment.
“What did we do, is it?” Rickeen went on. “To walk into the town o’ Swineford we done. ‘It’s hardly we’ll find a house open in it,’ says the fella that was dhrivin’ me. But what ’d it be but the night before the Fair o’ Swineford, and there was lads goin’ to the fair that had boots for mendin’, and faith we seen the light in the shoemaker’s house when we come into the town.”
“That was luck for you,” said Martin.
Rickeen turned his dark eyes on her, and then on me, with an expression that had in it something of pity, and something of triumph, the triumph of the story-teller who has a stone in his sling.
“’Twas a half door was in it,” he went on, “and when I looked over the door, faith I started when I seen the two that was inside, an’ they sewin’ boots. Two brothers they were, an’ they as small—!” He spread forth his two lean brown hands at about three feet above the ground, “an’ not as much mate on them as ’d bait a mouse thrap, an’ they as quare—!” He turned aside, and secretly spat behind his hand. “Faith, I wasn’t willin’ to go in where they were. ’Twasn’t that they were that small entirely, nor they had no frump on thim——”
“No what, Rick?” we ventured.
“No frump like, on their shoulder,” Rick said, with an explanatory hand indicating a hump; “but faith, above all ever I seen I wouldn’t wish to go next or nigh them!
“The man that was with me put a bag on the horse’s head. ‘Come inside,’ says he, ‘till they have the harness mended.’ ‘I’ll stay mindin’ the horse,’ says I, ‘for fear would she spill the oats.’ ‘I know well,’ says he, ‘ye wouldn’t like to go in where thim is!’ ‘Well then, God knows I would not!’ says I, ‘above all ever I seen!’”
“And had they the Bad Eye?” said Martin.
Rickeen again turned aside, and the propitiatory or protective act was repeated.