The long streets, without end almost, the houses without number, the large mills at the water-side, where row after row of windows rose one above another, until it made the eye dim and the head dizzy to look up at them, the noise, the babble of voices, the hurrying of men, the women, their dresses, filled Norah with a weary longing for her own fireside so far away by the shores of the sea that washed round Donegal.
A bell tolled; Micky’s Jim turned round and looked at Norah, who immediately blessed herself and commenced to say the Angelus. “That’s not the bell above the chapel of Greenanore, that’s the town clock,” laughed one of the women.
“There’s no God in this town,” said Micky’s Jim.
“No God!” Norah exclaimed, stopping in the midst of her prayer and half inclined to believe what Micky’s Jim was saying.
“None at all,” said Micky’s Jim. “God’s choice about the company He keeps and never comes near Derry.”
The party went to the Donegal House, a cheap little restaurant near the quay. The place was crowded. In addition to the potato squad there were several harvestmen from various districts in Donegal, and these were going over to Scotland now, intending to earn a few pounds at the turnip-thinning and haymaking before the real harvest came on. Most of the harvesters were intoxicated and raised a terrible hubbub in the restaurant while taking their food.
Micky’s Jim, who was very drunk, sat on one chair in the dingy dining-room, placed his feet on another chair, and with his back pressed against the limewashed wall sank into a deep slumber. The rest of the party sat round a rude table, much hacked with knives, and had tea, bread, and rancid butter for their meal. A slatternly servant, a native of Donegal, served all customers; the mistress of the house, a tall, thin woman, with a long nose sharp as a knife and eyes cruel enough to match the nose, cooked the food. The tea was made in a large pot, continually on the boil. When a bowl of tea (there were no cups) was lifted out a similar amount of water was put in to replace it and a three fingerful of tea was added. The man of the house, a stout little fellow with a red nose, took up his position behind the bar and sold whisky with lightning rapidity. Now and again he gave a glass of whisky free of cost to some of the harvesters who weren’t drinking very heavily. Those who got free drinks usually bought several glasses of liquor afterwards and became the most drunken men in the house.
After a long sleep Micky’s Jim awoke and called for a bowl of tea. Followed all the way by the shrill voice of her mistress, who was always scolding somebody, the servant girl carried the tea to Jim, and the youth drank a mouthful of it while rubbing one hand vigorously across his eyes in order to drive the sleep away from them.
“This tay is as long drawn as the face of yer mistress,” grumbled Jim, and the servant giggled. “I’m forgettin’ all about Dermod Flynn too,” Jim continued, turning to Norah Ryan, who sat on the chair next him. “I must go out and look for him. He was to meet me at the quay, and I’m sure that he’ll be on the wait for me there now.”
“Poor Dermod!” said Norah in answer to Jim. “Maybe he’ll get lost out on the lone streets, seein’ that he is all be himself.”