“Well, Tom,” said Mr. Martin, “that was a curious business of Molly Dwyer’s, who recovered her speech so suddenly the other day.”
“You may say that, sir,” replied Tom Bourke; “but I had to travel far for it: no matter for that, now. Your health, ma’am,” said he, turning to Mrs. Martin.
“Thank you, Tom. But I am told you had some trouble once in that way in your own family,” said Mrs. Martin.
“So I had, ma’am; trouble enough; but you were only a child at that time.”
“Come, Tom,” said the hospitable Mr. Martin, interrupting him, “take another tumbler;” and he then added, “I wish you would tell us something of the manner in which so many of your children died. I am told they dropped off, one after another, by the same disorder, and that your eldest son was cured in a most extraordinary way, when the physicians had given over.”
“’Tis true for you, sir,” returned Tom; “your father, the doctor (God be good to him, I won’t belie him in his grave) told me, when my fourth little boy was a week sick, that himself and Doctor Barry did all that man could do for him; but they could not keep him from going after the rest. No more they could, if the people that took away the rest wished to take him too. But they left him; and sorry to the heart I am I did not know before why they were taking my boys from me; if I did, I would not be left trusting to two of ’em now.”
“And how did you find it out, Tom?” inquired Mr. Martin.
“Why, then, I’ll tell you, sir,” said Bourke: “When your father said what I told you, I did not know very well what to do. I walked down the little bohereen, you know, sir, that goes to the river-side near Dick Heafy’s ground; for ’twas a lonesome place, and I wanted to think of myself. I was heavy, sir, and my heart got weak in me, when I thought I was to lose my little boy; and I did not know well how to face his mother with the news, for she doted down upon him. Beside, she never got the better of all she cried at her brother’s berrin (burying) the week before. As I was going down the bohereen, I met an old bocough,[9] that used to come about the place once or twice a year, and used always to sleep in our barn while he staid in the neighbourhood. So he asked me how I was. ‘Bad enough, Shamous (James),’ says I. ‘I’m sorry for your trouble,’ says he; ‘but you’re a foolish man, Mr. Bourke. Your son would be well enough if you would only do what you ought with him.’ ‘What more can I do with him, Shamous?’ says I: ‘the doctors give him over.’ ‘The doctors know no more what ails him than they do what ails a cow when she stops her milk,’ says Shamous: ‘but go to such a one,’ says he, telling me his name, ‘and try what he’ll say to you.’”
“And who was that, Tom?” asked Mr. Martin.