The man by her side was tall also and as thin as a pole; he was ramshackle and slovenly; there was not much pith in his body, for he was weak at the knees and his big feet splayed outwards at a curious angle; but his face was extraordinary intelligent, and when he was younger must have been beautiful. Drink and ill-health had dragged and carved his flesh, and nothing of comeliness remained to him but his eyes, which were timid and tender as those of a fawn, and his hands which had never done anything but fumble with women. He also leaned quietly on a cudgel and watched Patsy Mac Cann.
And it was to him that Patsy came. He did not look once at the woman, though all the time he never ceased shouting salutations and questions at her by her name.
He walked directly to the man, eyeing him intently.
"And how is yourself?" he roared with horrible heartiness. "It's a while since I saw you, and it was the pitch night that time."
"I'm all right," said the man.
"So you are," said Patsy, "and why wouldn't you be? Weren't you born in the wide lap of good luck, and didn't you stay there? Ah, it's the way that the men that come down little, narrow paths do have fortune, and the ones that tramp the wide roads do have nothing but their broken feet. Good luck to you, my soul, and long may you wave—Eh!"
"I didn't say a word," said the man.
"And there's a stick in your hand that would crack the skull of a mountain, let alone a man."
"It's a good stick," said the man.
"Would you be calling it the brother or the husband of the one that the woman has in her happy hands."