‘Got the boot, Mick?’ Abner asked.
Mick nodded. ‘It breaks the heart in me to think I’m afther leavin’ all them pheasants,’ he said. ‘Off on the touch again: that’s what it’s come to. Ireland’s the only place to live in, and I’ll knock down enough for a double at Punchestown if it’s only hawking of dead Roses of Jericho round the basements of Merrion Square. Shure, an’ you’ll come along wud me!’
Abner shook his head.
‘God help you, you couldn’t be worse if you was married’ said Mick, with a leer.
Abner laughed. He knew Mick Connor too well to take his tongue seriously.
That night when he went home he did not tell Mary what had happened, for it seemed to him his news would only disturb her needlessly. At the same time he knew that something must be done, and after tea he went down to the bridge to wait for old Drew’s return.
The labourer looked at him and scratched his head. ‘That’s the worst of they casual jobs,’ he said. ‘Money? Yes . . . but you never get knowed, and there’s nothing permanent to them.’
Abner asked how he should set about finding a job in the district, and the old man looked solemn.
‘I rackon you’ll find it easy enough for a month or maybe six week with the harvest coming. They be glad of any help they can get in they times. After that you can whistle for it.’
‘Anything ‘ll do for me,’ said Abner.