“I’ll ‘dommycille’ ye, ye blagyard!” Jerry snorted, throwing his burly form half over the table.
“Ah, thin, Jerry! Jerry!” A clear, bell-toned voice rang in his confused ears, and he felt the grasp of a vigorous hand upon his arm. “Is it mad ye are, Jerry, to think of striking the likes of him?”
Kate stood at his side. The mere touch of her hand on his sleeve would have sufficed for restraint, but she gripped his arm sharply, and turned upon him a gaze of stern reproval.
“’Tis elsewhere ye left your manners, Jerry!” she said, in a calm enough voice, though her bosom was heaving. “When our bards became insolent or turned rogues, they were sent outside to be beaten. ’T was niver done in the presence of ladies.”
Jerry’s puzzled look showed how utterly he failed to grasp her meaning. There was no such perplexity in O’Daly’s mind. He, too, had risen, and stood on the hearth beside his wife, who blinked vacuous inquiries sleepily at the various members of the group in turn.
“And we,” he said, with nervous asperity, “when our children become impertinent, we trounce them off to their bed.”
“Ah-h! No child of yours, O’Daly!” the girl made scornful answer, in measured tones.
“Well, thin,” the little man snarled, vehemently, “while ye’re under my roof, Miss O’Mahony, ye’ll heed what I say, an’ be ruled by ’t. An’ now ye force me to ’t, mark this: I’ll have no more of your gaddin’ about with that old bag-o’-bones of a Murphy. ’T is not dacint or fittin’ for a young lady—more especially when she’s to be a—wanderin’ the Lord knows where, or—”
Kate broke in upon his harangue with shrill laughter, half hysterical.
“Is it an O’Daly that I hear discoorsin’ on dacency to an O’Mahony!” she called out, ironically incredulous. “Well, thin—while that I’m under your roof—-”