“No need to tie any of ye to the chains, is there?” asked the man with the hare-lip, laughing loudly. “When ye go to bed at night, close the trap-door,” he continued. “It will keep the smell of the midden away from you!”
“Aye, sure,” said Willie the Duck.
“Oh! ye’re here again, are ye?” asked the ploughman. “Have ye got the music murderer with ye? This way to see where yer eatin’ room is,” said the man, without waiting to hear Willie the Duck’s answer to his question.
The byre was built on the shoulder of a hillock; the midden was situated in a grotto hollowed underneath. Behind the dung-hill, in the grotto, the three-legged stove was standing, and already a fire which old Eamon Doherty had kindled was sparkling merrily.
“Watch yersel’!” shouted the ploughman to Dermod Flynn, who was crossing the dung-hill on the way towards the fire. “That young rascal above will throw down a graipful of dung on yer head if ye’re not careful.”
Maire a Glan filled the pot with clean white potatoes and placed them over the blaze. The ploughman sat down on an upended box and lit his pipe; Micky’s Jim took the squad back to the byre, which was now fairly clean, and proceeded to make bunks for the night. Four or five level boxes were placed on the floor of each stall, a pile of hay was scattered about on top, and over this was spread two or three bags sewn together in the form of a sheet; sacks filled with straw served as pillows, a single blanket was given to each person, and two of the party had to sleep in each stall.
“Who’s goin’ to sleep with me?” asked Micky’s Jim.
“I will,” said Murtagh Gallagher.
“Ye snore like a pig!”
“What about me?” asked Owen Kelly.