The folk of Furry Farm

by K. F. Purdon

Ratigan, or the American, as the people called him, had a good deal to say about the stealing of the stock.

“If it was away in the States that such a thing was going on,” he said, “the whole countryside would join, and turn out to hunt the cattle-thief! What good are the people here, anyway! Only for this bad foot of mine, I’d start the thing meself!”

And with that he stuck out a foot as big as a beehive, to all appearance. And who was to know that there wasn’t a ha’porth the matter with the same foot? It was all play-acting he was, and by this talk he made it easy for himself to come and go after dark, in and out of the hay-loft at Melia’s.

“Dan Grennan,” said Ratigan another time, “Dan that had a great deal to say over his glass last night about this business, and in particular about a bullock that is missing off the Furry Farm. Strayed, as likely as not! But I can’t help thinking of a saying I used to hear from an Irishman I met over in America; how that the fox always smells his own smell!”

There were some that heard him say this that were inclined to be angry. It was no right thing to say of a decent neighbour. But the others laughed it off. The American had a way of making jokes, and no one minded much what he said, he being very free with his treats, too, to every one.

All this time, poor Dan and Kitty were fretting their hearts out about the bullock that was lost. They knew well that Heffernan would blame them for the loss, and maybe bid them leave the place for some one that would be more careful. And then what would become of them and the little family? Marg did all she could, but the thing could not be kept from Mickey’s knowledge for ever. He took it very hard.

You would really think that it was worse for him to be at a loss than any one else that had met the same misfortune. And he with not one in his house to care about providing for, except himself and the wife! But God help him and all like him! Sure his money and money’s worth appeared to be all he had, at that time anyway, to care about; excepting only Marg herself, of course. And he was so well used by now to her, and all her care and attention, that he scarcely knew himself either how necessary she was to him, or how much he thought of her.

But now, he wouldn’t listen to one word she’d say about this loss, to try to reconcile him to it; only he would keep on, ding-dong, from morning to night and from night to morning, lamenting about the fine beast that was gone, and saying that such a thing had never occurred as long as he had been to the good himself. At last, he began to say that he’d have to turn Dan and Kitty away.

Now this is the kind of talk Marg had to listen to, all day long, up and down, this way and that way, the same thing over and over again, till she grew sick of the very name of a bullock! So you could hardly blame her, that she began to look forward to the evenings, when she would be slipping off to the Holy Well, and the chance of seeing Ratigan there and passing a few remarks with him. It happened pretty often that they met in this way.

Ratigan still had the same pleasant manners with him, and the tongue that could coax the birds off the bushes. Sometimes he’d be telling Marg of all the troubles and hardships he met up with, out in America; and then again, it would be nothing but about the money you could earn and the fine times you could have there. And this would be, while he would be carrying the can of blessed water a piece of the way home for her. He never could abide, he’d cry, to see a woman have to work! as long as he’d have a leg under him; and how that he himself was nearly cured by the same Well. Now Marg could not but be glad to have her mind diverted from poor Mickey with his complaints about the lost bullock as well as his lame leg.