“Mrs. O’Doolahan.”
“Yes, Squire Shea.”
“How many more toimes am I to order you to kape that divilish dirty ould sow out o’ me schmoking room?”
“Be me sowl, sir, the litter went flying through forninst her, and the poor sow was only follerin’ when ye banged the dure agen her.”
“Thin moind ye, Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan, for I’m not to be thrifled wid in this style, I want ye to kape the pigs and childer out o’ me schmoking-room, or, be the bright buckles on me shoes, I’ll have to ingage some wan ilse to kape the house; to kape the house for me, and not the pigs, mind ye, Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan.”
“I moind, squire.”
“Thin see that I don’t have to sphake again about the matter,” said Esquire Barney Shea, putting his thumbs under the arm-holes of his red silk vest and puffing out his chest in the most important manner; “and now I’m going to sthroll down to the town for an airin’, Mrs. O’Doolahan.”
“A pleasant walk to ye this foine summer’s marning, sir,” said Mrs. O’Doolahan, dropping him a courtesy; and then Barney walked off with a stately step toward the village, looking back at every few steps to glance with pride at the neat cottage, surrounded with many well-cultivated acres, which were all his own.
And this was the same Barney Shea who had roamed over the prairies of Western America, killing Indians and robbers, and reveling in rows and ructions.
He had come to this township of Clonakilty with a few thousands of dollars in shining gold, had purchased a house and land to the surprise of his envious neighbors, had been dubbed “Esquire,” in honor of his wealth, and was now living the quiet life of an Irish gentleman.