“And how’s our friend the goat?” went on Mr. Mooney, with the furious facetiousness reserved for hustling tough witnesses.
“Well, I suppose she’s something west of the Skelligs by now,” replied Jer Keohane with great composure.
An appreciative grin ran round the Court. The fact that the goat had died of the kick and been “given the cliff” being regarded as an excellent jest.
Mr. Mooney consulted his notes:
“Well, now, about this fight,” he said, pleasantly, “did you see your sister catch Mrs. Brickley and pull her hair down to the ground and drag her shawl off of her?”
“Well,” said the witness, airily, “they had a bit of a scratch on account o’ the fish. Con Brickley had the shteer o’ the boat in his hand, and says he, ‘is there any man here that’ll take the shteer from me?’ The man was dhrunk, of course,” added Jer charitably.
“Did you have any talk with his wife about the fish?”
“I couldn’t tell the words that she said to me!” replied the witness, with a reverential glance at the Bench, “and she over-right three crowds o’ men that was on the sthrand.”
Mr. Mooney put his hands in his pockets and surveyed the witness.