Enter BIDDY, stops and listens.
Miss G. I wonder the major didn’t have the manners to step in, and spake to the lady first—was he an Irishman, he would.
Biddy. Then it’s my wonder he wouldn’t step in to take his dinner first—was he an Englishman, he would. But it’s lucky for me and for him he didn’t, becaase he couldn’t, for it won’t be ready this three-quarters of an hour—only the Scotch broth, which boiled over.
{BIDDY retires, and goes on cooking.—CHRISTY fills out a glass of spirits to each of the band.
Miss G. Since the major’s not in it, I’ll not be staying here—for here’s only riff-raff triangle and gridiron boys, and a black-a-moor, and that I never could stand; so I’ll back into the room. Show the major up, do you mind, father, as soon as ever he’d come.
Christy. Jantlemen all! here’s the king’s health, and confusion worse confounded to his enemies, for yees; or if ye like it better, here’s the plaid tartan and fillibeg for yees, and that’s a comprehensive toast—will give ye an appetite for your dinners.
{They drink in silence.
Miss G. Did ye hear me, father?
Christy. Ay, ay.—Off with ye!
{Exit Miss GALLAGHER, tossing back her head.—CHRISTY pours out a glass of whiskey for himself, and with appropriate graces of the elbow and little finger, swallows it, making faces of delight.