“So far,” said Neal, “I have generally got the worst of it when I have fought.”
“Ay, you would. Your way of fighting is no just the canniest, but I like you no the worse for it. You might have got off without thon bloody clout on the top of your head if ye’d just clodded stones and then run like the rest of them. But that’s no your way of fightin’. Did ye ever fight afore?”
“Just two nights ago,” said Neal, “and I got the scrape on the side of my face then.”
“And was it for a lassie you were fightin’ thon time? I see well by the face of you that it was. And she liked you for it. Did she no? She’d be a quare one that didna. Did she give you a kiss to make the scrab on your face better? I wouldna think twice about giving you one myself only you wouldn’t have kisses from the likes of me. Be quiet now, and sup up your tea. I willna have you offering to slabber ower my hand if that’s what you’re after.”
Neal, who had felt himself goaded to some act of gallantry, returned sheepishly to his tea and toast.
“You’re no a Belfast boy?” said Peg.
“No,” said Neal, “I’m from Dunseveric, right away in the north of the county.”
“Ay, are you? Do you mind the old rhyme—
‘County Antrim, men and horses,
County Down for bonny lasses.’
Maybe your lassie, the one that kissed you, was out of the County Down?”