Vavasour [wrathfully]. Drinkin'! I'd better be drinkin' when neighbors go walkin' round the village on Allhallows' Eve with their heads done up in white.
Howell Howell. Aye, well, I can't be spoilin' the new hat I have, that I cannot. A finer beaver there has never been in my shop. [He takes off the handkerchief, hangs it where the heat of the fire will dry it a bit, and then, removing the beaver, shows it to Vavasour, turning it this way and that.]
Vavasour [absent-mindedly]. Aye, grand, grand, man!
Howell Howell. What are ye gazin' at the clock for?
Vavasour [guiltily]. I'm no lookin' at anything.
Howell Howell. Well, indeed, I must be goin', or I shall be late at Pally Hughes's. Good-night.
Vavasour. Good-night. [He closes the door and stands before the clock, studying it. While he is studying its face the door opens slowly, and the tumbled, curly head of a lad about eighteen years of age peers in. The door continues slowly to open. Vavasour unconscious all the while.] 'Tis ten now. Ten, eleven, twelve; that's three hours left, 'tis; nay, nay, 'tis only two hours left, after all, an' then—
Eilir Morris [bounding in and shutting the door behind him with a bang]. Boo! Whoo—o—o!
Vavasour [his face blanched, dropping limply on to the settle]. The devil!
Eilir Morris [troubled]. Uch, the pity, Uncle! I didn't think, an' ye're ill!