“Yes, hurry on and give me the coat, Dinny,” said Charlotte, displaying that knowledge of Irish that always came as a shock to those who were uncertain as to its limitations.
The tailor untwisted his short legs and descended stiffly to the floor, and having helped Charlotte into the coat, pushed her into the light of the open door, and surveyed his handiwork with his large head on one side, and the bitten ends of thread still hanging on his lower lip.
“It turrned well,” he said, passing his hand approvingly over Miss Mullen’s thick shoulder; “afther all, the good stuff’s the best; that’s fine honest stuff that’ll wear forty of thim other thrash. That’s the soort that’ll shtand.”
“To the death!” interjected Mrs. Lydon fervently.
“How many wrinkles are there in the back?” said Charlotte; “tell me the truth now, Dinny; remember ’twas only last week you were ‘making your sowl’ at the mission.”
“Tchah!” said Dinny Lydon contemptuously, “it’s little I regard the mission, but I wouldn’t be bothered tellin’ ye lies about the likes o’ this,” surreptitiously smoothing as he spoke a series of ridges above the hips; “that’s a grand clane back as ever I see.”
“How independent he is about his missions!” said Charlotte jibingly. “Ha! Dinny me man, if you were sick you’d be the first to be roaring for the priest!”
“Faith, divil a roar,” returned the atheistical Dinny; “if I couldn’t knock the stone out of the gap for meself, the priest couldn’t do it for me.”
“Oh, Gaad! Dinny, have conduct before Miss Mullen!” cried Mrs. Lydon.
“He may say what he likes, if he wouldn’t drop candle grease on my jacket,” said Charlotte, who had taken off the coat and was critically examining every seam; “or, indeed, Mrs. Lydon, I believe it was yourself did it!” she exclaimed, suddenly intercepting an indescribable glance of admonition from Mrs. Dinny to her husband; “that’s wax candle grease! I believe you wore it yourself at Michael M‘Donagh’s wake, and that’s why it was finished four days ago.”