It was the first thing Walter heard when he had staggered down to the dock with an old mainsail and a tattered jib which he had resurrected from the top of a neighbouring oat stack. The music heartened him, though he was physically pretty well spent. It was all right, he said to himself; all right.
“Don’t you think you had better be going to the rescue of your friend Jawn De Lancey Galloway O’Toole?” Phœbe remarked as she stood before Richard and polished a plate. “He’ll be needin’ you, I’m thinkin’.”
“Jawn can take care of himself,” Richard had rejoined.
“Ordinarily, yes,” she agreed, “if he weren’t gallivantin’. But when an Irishman like Jawn begins to gallivant, his tongue waggles at both ends.”
“What’s gallivanting?” inquired Richard lazily. “Comes from ‘galli’ to gallop—doesn’t it?—and ‘vanti,’ vanity; ‘The vanity of horsemanship.’ The only thing Jawn can ride successfully is a subway express.”
“You’re wrong entirely on your etymology, young man,” she nodded sagely. “The word ‘gallivant’ comes from the ‘gal,’ meaning ‘woman,’ and ‘vanting,’ meanin’ ‘wantin’ ’em bad.’ At the rate he was goin’ when I left him,” she chuckled—or burbled, or whatever name you choose for a yet unnamed accomplishment, “he’s probably on the way to the priest-house by this time.”
“Who’s the woman?” Richard inquired.
“Well, he didn’t begin by pretendin’ it was the old lady!”
Richard considered that statement for several seconds, while Phœbe hummed about him.
“Let him!” he finally said.