Paddy lost no time in mounting, and having stretched himself at full length, his terrified sweetheart piled the litter over him until he was completely hidden from view.
The hiding was scarce effected when Andy Tyrrell, old Mrs. Tyrrell, and Mrs. Galvin made their appearance. They each drew stools round the fire, in order to enjoy the blaze, which was most welcome after their inclement ride.
“Are you yit mopin’ over that blackguard, Paddy Fret, ma colleen?” asked the priest’s housekeeper. “’Tis a bad bargain you’d make o’ the same daltheen,[27] honey.”
Katty, profoundly concerned in the mending of a stocking, pretended not to hear the inquiry.
“She’s gettin’ sense, Mary,” said Mrs. Tyrrell. “Boys’ll be boys, and girls’ll be girls, till the geese crows like cocks.”
“I tould the vagabone at the last fair,” remarked the old man, “that if ever I caught him within an ass’s roar o’ this doore I’d put him into the thrashin’ machine, and make chaff of his ugly bones. Bad luck to his impidence, the aulaun,[28] to come lookin’ afther my daughter.”
A bottle of whisky was now produced, and Katty busied herself in providing glasses for the party. Mrs. Galvin at first declined to “touch a dhrop, it bein’ too airly,” but once persuaded to hallow the seductive fluid with her chaste lips, it was wonderful how soon she got reconciled to potation after potation, till her inquisitive eyes began to twinkle oddly in the firelight.
“What the divil is the matther with the creel?” (the platform above alluded to) asked old Tyrrell. “’Tis groanin’ as if it had the lumbago.”
“The wind, my dear man, ’tis the wind,” replied Mrs. Galvin.
“Faith, I think ’tis enchanted it is,” observed the lady of the house. “Look how it keeps rockin’ and shakin’, as if there was a throubled sowl in it.”