Pat. With all the pleasure in life, ma’am, only every horse he has in the world is out o’ messages, and drawing turf and one thing or another to-day—and he is very sorry, ma’am.
Catty. So am I, then—I’m unlucky the day. But I won’t be saying so, for fear of spreading ill luck on my faction. Pray now what kind of a fair is it?—Would there be any good signs of a fight, Mr. Pat Coxe?
Pat. None in life as yet, ma’am—only just buying and selling. The horse-bastes, and horned-cattle, and pigs squeaking, has it all to themselves. But it’s early times yet—it won’t be long so.
Catty. No McBrides, no Ballynavogue boys gathering yet?
Pat. None to signify of the McBrides, ma’am, at all.
Catty. Then it’s plain them McBrides dare not be showing their faces, or even their backs, in Ballynavogue. But sure all our Ballynascraw boys, the Roonies, are in it as usual, I hope?
Pat. Oh, ma’am, there is plinty of Roonies. I marked Big Briny of Cloon, and Ulick of Eliogarty, and little Charley of Killaspugbrone.
Catty. All good men{1}—no better. Praise be where due.
{Footnote 1: men who fight well.}
Pat. And scarce a McBride I noticed. But the father and son—ould Matthew, and flourishing Phil, was in it, with a new pair of boots and the silver-hilted whip.