“Sure, it’ll be a big day for Shan Finucane,” said Mrs Mahony, who was standing behind her husband in the doorway with a baby in her arms.
Mr Mahony said nothing for a while, but watched the crowd in front of the inn.
“Look at him,” said Mr Mahony, breaking out at last—“look at him in his ould green coat! Look at him with the ould whip undher his arm, and the boots on his feet not paid for, and him struttin’ about as if he was the Marquis of Watherford! Holy Mary! did yiz ever see such an objick! Mr Mullins!”
“Halloo!” replied Mr Mullins, the cobbler across the way, who, with his window open owing to the mildness of the weather, was whaling away at a shoe-sole, the only busy man in the village.
“Did y’ hear the news?”
“What news?”
“Shan’s going to get a new coat.”
“Faith, thin, I hope he’ll pay first for his ould shoes.”
“How much does he owe you?”
“Siven and six—bad cess to him!”