“Whisht!” said another; “he’s away at Malin this very week after more, and his men with him. I tell you what I’m thinking, Larry,” continued the speaker, who had drunk somewhat, “this—”
“Howld yer tongue,” said the first speaker in a whisper. “Do you know no better than blather at the top of your voice like that?”
“I’m thinking,” continued the other, retreating towards the door, and beckoning the others around him, “that it’d do Maurice a world of good to have his winders broken.”
“Ay, and not by pebbles. There’s lead enough to spare in the country, praise God.”
“And fire enough to warm his bones if he should be feeling cold,” said another.
“He’s to be back to-morrow. I heard that from Martin, who’s been left to take care of the place.”
“Sure, Martin’s a right boy for us. He’d never spoil sport for the likes of Gorman.”
“Not he. I warrant you Martin will be waiting on us, for I’ll step across and tell him myself. There’s no one else to mind but the women and a fool of a boy.”
“Begorrah, thin, we’ll stand by you, Larry. If Pat Corkill swings to plaze Maurice Gorman, Maurice shall roast to plaze us. But whisht! I’ll have a boat for the eight of yez at this time to-morrow.”
Then, one by one, they slunk off out of the dark shanty, leaving me behind the door in a fever of excitement and impatience.