“True as death,” said Maire a Glan. “And Farley is building a big place, as the old man said. He has well nigh over forty men on the job.”
“And what would he be paying them?”
“Seven shillings a week, without bit or sup. It is a hard job too, for my man, himself, leaves here at six of the clock in the morning and he is not back at our own fire till eight of the clock at night.”
“Get away!”
“But that isn’t all, nor the half of it, as the man said,” Maire a Glan went on. “Himself has to do all the work at home before dawn and after dusk, so that he has only four hours to sleep in the turn of the sun.”
“Just think of that,” said Maire a Crick.
“That’s not all, nor half of it, as the old man said,” the woman with the bundle continued. “My man gets one bag of yellow meal from Farley every fortnight, for we have eight children and not a pratee, thanks be to God! Farley charges people like yourselves only sixteen shillings a bag, but he charges us every penny of a gold sovereign on the bags that we get. If we do not pay at the end of a month he puts on another sixpence, and at the end of six months he has three extra shillings on the bag of yellow meal.”
“God be praised, but he’s a sharp one!” said the beansho. “Is this you?” asked the woman with the bundle, looking at the speaker. “Have you some stockings in your shawl too?”
“Sorrow the one,” answered the beansho.
“But what have ye there?” asked Maire a Glan; then, as if recollecting, she exclaimed: “Oh, I know! It is the wean, as the man said.... And is this yourself, Norah Ryan?”