Mr. Flanagan was standing at the door of his shop. He beckoned to the sergeant.
“It’s lucky,” he said, “things happening the way they have on the very first night of the new doctor being here.”
“I don’t know so much about luck,” said Sergeant Rahilly. “What luck?”
“The half of the children in the town is took with it,” said Flanagan.
“You may call that luck if it pleases you,” said the sergeant. “But it’s not my notion of luck. My own Molly’s bellowing like a young heifer, and Mrs. Conerney’s boy is dying, so she tells me. If that’s luck I’d rather you had it than me.”
“I’m sorry for the childer,” said Flanagan; “but Mrs. Doolan, who’s in the shop this minute drinking porter, says it’ll do them no harm if they’re given a sup of water to drink out of the Holy Well beyond Tubber Neeve, and a handful of rowan berries laid on the stomach or where-ever else the pain might be.”
“Rowan berries be damned,” said the sergeant. “I’m off for the doctor; not that I’m expecting much from him. A young fellow with a face like that! I wish to God Dr. Farelly was back with us.”
“Doctors is no use,” said Flanagan, “neither one nor another, if it’s true what Mrs. Doolan says.”
“And what does Mrs. Doolan say?” asked the sergeant.
“I’m not saying I believe her,” said Flanagan, “and I’m not asking you to believe her, but what she says is——”