Farley McKeown was a superstitious man. He feared the curse of an angry woman as much as he feared the curse of a priest of the Catholic Church. And those women would curse him if they slept all night on Dooey Head. For a moment he glared angrily at Dony McNelis, then went to the window facing the street, opened it and looked out on the shivering creatures assembled in the falling snow.
“Are there many Tweedore and Frosses people here?” he shouted.
“There’s a good lot of us here, and we’re afraid that we’ll be a wee bit late for the tide if we don’t get away this very minute,” said a voice from the crowd. Maire a Crick, the fatalist, was speaking.
“Have ye any stockings with ye?”
“Sorrow the one has one that’s not on her feet, save Maire a Glan, and she doesn’t come from our side of the water,” Maire a Crick answered. “When we were here the last day we couldn’t get a taste of yarn and we had to sleep all night on the rocks of Dooey. All night, mind, Farley McKeown, and the sky glowering like a hangman and the sea rushing like horses of war up on the strand. God be with us! but it will be a cold place on a night like this. For the love of Mary, give us some yarn, Farley McKeown,” said the old woman in a piteous voice. “Twenty-four hours have passed since I saw bread or that what buys it.”
McKeown turned round to his clerks. “Is there much yarn down below?” he asked.
“Plenty,” said Dony McNelis, wiping his pen on his coat-sleeve.
“If they had my yarn with them and miss the tide, they’d ruin the stuff,” thought Farley McKeown; then turning to the women he shouted in a loud voice: “There’s no yarn for the Tweedore and Frosses women this day. Maybe if they come to-morrow or the day after they’ll get some.”
Having said these words he shut the window.