Christy. And don’t you, then, Florry?
Miss G. And how should I, sir?—You didn’t send me to the dancing-school of Ferrinafad to larn me to make apple-pies, I conclude.
Christy. Troth, Florry, ‘twas not I sint you there, sorrow foot but your mother; only she’s in her grave, and it’s bad to be talking ill of the dead any way. But be that how it will, Mr. Gilbert must get the apple-pie, for rasons of my own that need not be mintioned. So, Biddy! Biddy, girl! Biddy Doyle!
Enter BIDDY, running, with a ladle in her hand.
Christy. Drop whatever you have in your hand, and come here, and be hanged to you! And had you no ears to your head, Biddy?
Biddy. Sure I have, sir—ears enough. Only they are bothering me so without, that pig and the dog fighting, that I could not hear ye calling at-all-at-all. What is it?—For I’m skimming the pot, and can’t lave it.
{Miss GALLAGHER goes on dressing
Christy. It’s only these apples, see!—You’ll make me an apple-pie, Biddy, smart.
Biddy. Save us, sir!—And how will I ever get time, when I’ve the hash to make for them Scotch yet? Nor can I tell, for the life of me, what it was I did with the onions and scallions neither, barring by great luck they’d be in and under the press here—(running to look under the press)—which they are, praised be God! in the far corner.
{BIDDY stretches her arm under the press.