Dr. Lovaway, desperately anxious to reach the sergeant’s suffering child, tried to shake off the old woman. He suspected that she was drunk. He was certain that she was extremely unpleasant. The suggestion that she might be his mother filled him with loathing. It was not any pleasanter to think of her as a grandmother.
Mrs. Doolan clung tightly to his arm with both her skinny hands.
Mr. Flanagan approached them from behind; leaning across Lovaway’s shoulders, he whispered in his ear:
“There’s not about the place—there’s not within the four seas of Ireland, one that has as much knowledge of fairies and all belonging to them as that old woman.”
“Fairies!” said Lovaway. “Did you say—— Surely you didn’t say fairies?”
“I just thought you’d be pleased,” said Flanagan, “and it’s lucky, so it is, that Mrs. Doolan should happen to be in the town to-night of all nights, just when them ones—the fairies, you know, doctor—has half the children in the town took with pains in their stomachs.”
Dr. Lovaway looked round him wildly. He supposed that Flanagan must be mad. He had no doubt that the old woman was drunk.
“I’ve seen the like before,” she said, leering up into Lovaway’s face. “I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen a strong man tying himself into knots with the way they had him held, and there’s no cure for it only——”
Lovaway caught sight of Sergeant Rahilly. In his first rush to reach the stricken child he had left the sergeant behind. The sergeant was a heavy man who moved with dignity.
“Take this woman away,” said Lovaway. “Don’t let her hold me.”