“There’s nothin’ like it,” said Mick.
“Ah, nothin’ at all,” said Paddy.
Mrs. Doherty made no remark as she twisted a dripping apron into a sausage-shaped roll to wring the water out.
“How much was it you were sayin’ you’d have in the week, Paddy, just to put in your pocket for your divarsion like?” inquired Mick, with a convenient lapse of memory.
“Och, seven or eight shillin’s anyway,” said Paddy, in the tone of one to whom shillings had already become trivial coins; “and that, mind you, after you’ve ped for the best of aitin’ and dhrinkin’, and your kit free, and no call to be spendin’ another penny unless you plase. Sure, Long Murphy was tellin’ me he was up in the town awhile ago, on a day when they were just after gettin’ their pay, and he said the Post-Office was that thick wid the soldier lads sendin’ home the money to their friends, he couldn’t get speech of a clerk to buy his stamp be no manner of manes, not if he’d wrecked the place. ’T was the Sidmouth Fusileers was in at that time; they’re off to Limerick now.”
“But that’s a grand regulation they have,” said Mick, “wid the short service nowadays. Where’s the hardship in it when a man can quit at the ind of three year, if he’s so plased? Three year’s no time to speak of.”
“Sure, not at all; you’d scarce notice it passin’ by. Like Barney Bralligan’s song that finished before it begun—isn’t that the way of it, ma’am?”
“It’s a goodish len’th of a while,” said Mrs. Doherty.
“But thin there’s the lave; don’t be forgettin’ the lave, Paddy man. Supposin’ we—”
“Tub be sure, there’s the lave. Why, it’s skytin’ home on lave they do be most continial. And the Edenderrys is movin’ no farther than just to Athlone; that’s as handy a place as you could get.”