The O’Mahony grew speedily restless under the consciousness of Malachy’s presence close at his back.
“We can git along without him, can’t we?” he asked O’Daly, with a curt backward nod.
“Ah, no, sir,” pleaded the other. “The boy ’ud be heart-broken if ye sint him away. ’Twas his grandfather waited on your great-uncle’s cousin, The O’Mahony of the Double Teeth; and his father always served your cousins four times removed, who aich in his turn held the title; and the old man sorrowed himsilf to death whin the last of ’em desaysed, and your honor couldn’t be found, and there was no more an O’Mahony to wait upon. The grief of that good man wud ’a’ brought tears to your eyes. There was no keeping him from the dhrink day or night, sir, till he made an ind to him-silf. And young Malachy, sir, he’s composed of the same determined matarial.”
“Well, of course, if he’s so much sot on it as all that,” said The O’Mahony, relenting. “But I wanted to feel free to talk over affairs with you—money matters and so on; and—”
“Ah, sir, no fear about Malachy. Not a word of what we do be saying does he comprehind.”
“Deef and dumb, eh?”
“Not at all; but he has only the Irish.” In answer to O’Mahony’s puzzled look, O’Daly added in explanation: “It’s the glory of Muirisc, sir, that we hould fast be our ancient thraditions and tongue. In all the place there’s not rising a dozen that could spake to you in English. And—I suppose your honor forgets the Irish entoirely? Or perhaps your parents neglected to tache it to you?”
“Yes,” said The O’Mahony; “they never taught me any Irish at all; leastways, not that I remember.”
“Luk at that now!” exclaimed O’Daly, sadly, as he took more fish upon his plate.
“It’s goin’ to be pritty rough sleddin’ for me to git around if nobody understands what I say, ain’t it?” asked The O’Mahony, doubtfully.