“Yes. He’s curate of Ballymoy.”
“Thank God, I don’t live in that parish! I should be hypnotised into going to church every time he preached, and then——. Hush! Can he be coming back already? I believe he is. No other man would whistle as loud as that. If he begins to illtreat me again, Mr Higginbotham, I hope you’ll try and drag him off. I can’t stand much more.”
Old Tummus and the Battle of Scarva.
From “Lady Anne’s Walk.”
By Eleanor Alexander.
I found old Tummus scuffling Lady Anne’s walk; that is to say, he was busy looking pensively at the weeds as he leaned on his hoe. He never suddenly pretends to be at work when he is not at work, but always retains the same calm dignity of carriage. He too frankly despises his employers to admit that either his occasional lapses into action, or his more frequent attitude of storing his reserve force are any concern of theirs.
Gathering that he was graciously inclined for conversation by a not unfriendly glance which he cast in my direction after he had spat on the ground, I settled myself to listen.
“Do ye know what I’m goin’ te tell ye?”