“Is it The O’Mahony of Muirisc that I have the honor to see before me?” he asked, his little ferret eyes dividing their glances in hesitation between the two.
“I’m your huckleberry,” said The O’Mahony, and held out his hand.
The small man bent his shriveled form double in salutation, and took the proffered hand with ceremonious formality.
“Sir, you’re kindly welcome back to your ancesthral domain,” he said, with an emotional quaver in his thin, high voice. “All your people are waitin’ with anxiety and pleasure for the sight of your face.”
“I hope they’ve got us somethin’ to eat,” said The O’Mahony. “We had breakfast at daybreak this morning, so’s to work the churches, and I’m—”
“His honor,” hastily interposed Jerry, “is that pious he can’t sleep of a mornin’ for pinin’ to hear mass.”
The little man’s dark face softened at the information. He guessed Jerry’s status by it, as well, and nodded at him while he bowed once more before The O’Mahony.
“I took the liberty to order some slight refresh-mints at the hotel, sir, against your coming,” he said. “If you’ll do me the condescinsion to follow me, I will conduct you thither without delay.”
They followed their guide, as he, bearing himself very proudly and swinging his shoulders in rhythm with his gait, picked his way across the square, through the mud of the pig-market, and down a narrow street of ancient, evil-smelling rookeries, to the chief tavern of the town—a cramped and dismal little hostelry, with unwashed children playing with a dog in the doorway, and a shock-headed stable-boy standing over them to do with low bows the honors of the house.
The room into which they were shown, though no whit cleaner than the rest, had a comfortable fire upon the grate, and a plentiful meal, of cold meat and steaming potatoes boiled in their jackets, laid on the table. Jerry put down the bags here, and disappeared before The O’Mahony could speak. The O’Mahony promptly sent the waiter after him, and upon his return spoke with some sharpness: