Honor. Oh! father, would you suspect—
Old McB. (catching her in his arms, and kissing her again and again) Then you’re a true angel, every inch of you. But not a word more in favour of the horse—sure the money for the bullocks shall go to your portion, every farthing.
Honor. There’s the thing! (Holding her father) I don’t wish that.
Phil. (stopping her mouth) Say no more, Honor—I’m best pleased so.
Old McB. (aside) I’ll give him the horse, but he sha’n’t know it. (Aloud) I won’t. When I say I won’t, did I ever?
{Exit Old McBRIDE.
Phil. Never since the world stud—to do you justice, you are as obstinate as a mule. Not all the bullocks he’s carrying to the fair the day, nor all the bullocks in Ballynavogue joined to ‘em, in one team, would draw that father o’ mine one inch out of his way.
Honor. (aside, with a deep sigh) Oh, then what will I do about Randal ever!
Phil. As close a fisted father as ever had the grip of a guinea! If the guineas was all for you—wilcome, Honor! But that’s not it. Pity of a lad o’ spirit like me to be cramped by such a hunx of a father.
Honor. Oh! don’t be calling him names, Phil: stiff he is, more than close—and any way, Phil dear, he’s the father still—and ould, consider.