Not but what he was praying for she to be gone. But he knew if he let on to her how anxious he was to get shut of her, the sorra toe she’d stir. The same as if you were driving a pig. You must pull it back, if you want it to go on.
“Leaving it behind me, indeed!” says she; “no, but it’s hardship and a dog’s life I’m leaving! I’ve stopped here long enough, slaving the skin off me bones for ye!” says she.
So Mickey said no more, only drove her off himself on the side-car to the train, with her box; and when she was gone, “A good riddance of bad rubbish!” said Mickey to himself; and was getting up on the car again, when he perceived on the platform, as if he was after getting off the train, a young boy, a sort of a cousin of his own, by the name of Art Heffernan.
They passed the time of day, of course, and then had some further discourse, and it appeared that Art was out of a job. He had no means, no, nor a home; not one belonging to him any nearer nor Mickey. All his people were either gone to America, or to the old churchyard of Clough-na-Rinka, he said.
So Mickey then preffered him the chance of coming back with him to the Furry Farm for a bit, till he’d have time to look about him.
“I don’t mind if I do,” says Art; “but if I stop awhile and work about the place, what will you do for me in the way of payment?”
“Duck’s wages; the run of your bill,” says Mickey.
“Throw in a shuit of clothes and a pair of brogues, twice a year; and the grass of the little heifer I have,” says Art, “and I don’t mind trying how we’ll get on for a bit.”
Mickey agreed to that. He was at a short at that time, with Julia gone off, and no one likely at hand to do the work about the house, let alone the farm. And Art was well worthy of what he got. He was a smart, willing boy; able and ready to put his hand to whatever was required to be done about the whole place. And Mickey was contented with him. By this plan, he hadn’t to pay out money in wages; a thing he never had any wish for was, to part money.
It all went on very well. Art worked early and late, and was always agreeable and civil-spoken; so that the two of them, Heffernans both, appeared always to be the best of friends. And the people began saying among themselves, that Art was as apt as not to be coming in on the Furry Farm, when the present man would be done with it. That would be natural enough. But the thing turned out very different, in the heel of the hunt, from what any one was laying out then about the Heffernans.