The O’Mahony looked gravely across the table at Jerry, whose broad, shining face was lobster-red with the exertion of keeping itself straight.
“I believe there’s hardly another case on record,” he said. “Well, as I was remarking, it’s only natural, now, that I should make him my secretary and bookkeeper. I’ve had a long talk with him about it—and about other things, too—and I guess there ain’t much doubt about our getting along together all right.”
“And is it your honor’s intintion—Will—will he take over my functions as bard as well?” Cormac ventured to inquire. He added in deprecating tones: “Sure, they’ve always been considered hereditary.”
“No; I think we’ll let the bard business slide for the time being,” answered The O’Mahony. “You see, I’ve been going along now a good many years without any poet, so I’ve got used to it. There was one fellow out at Plevna—an English newspaper man—who did compose some verses about me—he seemed to think they were quite funny—but I shot off one of his knee-pans, and that sort of put a damper on poetry, so far as I was concerned. However, we’ll see how your boy turns out. Maybe, if he takes a shine to that sort of thing—”
“Then you’re to stay with us?” inquired Mother Agnes. “So grand ye are wid your decorations an’ your foreign titles—sure, they tell me you’re Chevalier an’ O’Mahony Bey both at wance—’t will be dull as ditch-water for you here.”
“No, I reckon not,” replied The O’Mahony. “I’ve had enough of it. It’s nigh on to forty years since I first tagged along in the wake of a drum with a musket on my shoulder. I don’t know why I didn’t come back years ago. I was too shiftless to make up my mind, I suppose. No, I’m going to stay here—going to die here—right among these good Muirisc folks, who are thumping each other to pieces outside on the green. Talk about its being dull here—why, Mother Agnes, ’t would have done your heart good to see old Barney Driscoll laying about him with that overgrown, double-barreled trumpet of his. I haven’t seen anything better since we butted our heads up against Schipka Pass.”
“’T will be grand tidings for the people—that same,” interposed Kate, with happiness in glance and tone.
The O’Mahony looked tenderly at her.
“That reminds me,” he said, and then turned to the nuns, lifting his voice in token that he especially addressed them. “There was some talk, I understand, about little Katie here—”
“Little, is it!” laughed the girl. “Sure, to pl’ase you I’d begin growing again, but that there’d be no house in Muirisc to hold me.”