Mickey had been there for some time, when he heard a cough. He looked round, and who was it, a few perch away on the road, but Dark Moll.
“Hi!” shouted Mickey to her; “where are you off to, in such a murthering hurry, Moll?”
“Who’s that, that’s calling me, in the name of God?” said Moll, in a small, weak kind of a voice, as if she was frightened at hearing him.
“Sure it’s only me ... Mr. Heffernan,” said Mickey; “who else?”
“The Lord save us! and is it a-by the Furry Farm I am?”
“Where else?” said Mickey.
“Well, now, isn’t it the poor case to have no use of your eyes,” said Moll.
But well she knew where she was! and had intended in her own mind to get a chance of talking to the boy, Jack Rorke, that she wanted for Marg, and thought might be with Heffernan yet. And along with that, she thought of having a chat with Heffernan himself to see if he would be willing to put in a good word for Jack, and recommend him for the herding that Marg was to be put out of, now the father was dead. For Heffernan being a respectable, well-thought-of person, a character from him would be worth having.
“Come along in, Moll,” said Heffernan, “and give us any news that’s going!”
“I’ll take a sate, and be thankful to ye, Mr. Heffernan,” said Moll. “But for news ... sorra bit of ‘chaw-the-rag’ there is to be had, as far as poor ould Moll can tell!”