“Ah, that’s another thing, Mrs Riddel. I’m sorry for William. His trade of chimney-sweeping takes him early out in the cold mornings.”
“And shure it does,” she replied; “but the never a bit less shame to ye to think I was to ate musthard like honey and the devil a bit ov salt mate to take wid it.”
“I am sorry for the mistake,” said the grocer, as he rolled up the small packet, and Biddy laid down the pence.
“And so you may,” added she, not altogether reconciled; “and, what’s more, have I not as good a right to a piece of salt bacon as the gintry?”
And not contented yet without the parting salute—
“And ye don’t know yet that we kept pigs at home, at Ballynagh; ay, an’ they more than paid the rint; and, what’s more, bedad, we didn’t need to tie the bit ov bacon to the ind ov the string and swallow it, and thin pull it out agin.”
“I believe it, Mrs Riddel,” said the grocer.
And then the last words came—
“And what’s more, it wasn’t straiked wid a hunger and a burst, like your gintry’s. Just purty white and red where it should be; and we had musthard, too, galore, when we wanted it. Shure, and I’ve settled your penn’orth, anyhow.”
And so she had; for as she went grandly away, carrying in her hand her half-ounce of tea, and in her head the honour of Ballynagh, Mr M‘Dougal looked as if he had committed an error in joking as he had done on the wants of the poor.