“Run over,” he said, “and tell young Kerrigan to come here to me for a minute. When you’ve done that go to bed or dig potatoes or do any other mortal thing except stand at the door of the barrack grinning.”
“What tune’s that young Kerrigan’s after playing?” said Gallagher solemnly.
Father McCormack looked anxiously at Major Kent. The Major fixed his eyes on the stuffed fox in the glass case. It was Doyle who answered Gallagher.
“It’s no tune at all the way he’s playing it,” he said. “Didn’t you hear the doctor saying he had it wrong?”
“What tune would it be,” said Gallagher, “if so be he had it right?”
“I told you before,” said Doyle. “I told you till I’m tired telling you that I don’t know the name of it. It’s not a tune that ever I heard before.”
“I’ll find out what tune it is,” said Gallagher savagely. “I’ll drag it out of you if I have to drag the black liver of you along with it.”
“Order, gentlemen, order,” said Father McCormack. “That’s no language to be using here.”
“I was meaning no disrespect to you, Father,” said Gallagher. “I’d be the last man in Ireland to raise my hand against the clergy.”
“It’s the doctor’s liver you’ll have to drag, Thady, if you drag any liver at all,” said Doyle, “for he’s the only one that knows what the tune is.”