“I think it ought to be now, Brian,” said Molly, “will I get a spoon for you?”
“O, no—wasn’t fingers made before forks.”
So out he came, and walking straight up to the fire, sat down on his heels, and flopped down his hand into the now nearly boiling tar, but quickly drew it up, all covered with the horrid stuff, and was hardly able to bear the pain.
“O, the divil carry it away for a skillet! O, Monum un ustha, but my fingers are all destroyed! Oh! oh!—I put down the wrong skillet! Well, I’ll not bawl out, I’d waken this honest man, and all the people—and they’d only laugh at me; O, voh! what’ll I do at all?”
In his agony, he bolted out into the garden, while Mehicle slipped out of the window, shillelah in hand, and though it was dark, saw Mr. Mungavan run to the cabbages, and begin stripping off the leaves, while he rubbed them to his fingers, in his vain attempts to cool his hands, and get the tar off.
“Hallo!—who’s this!” said Mehicle, running up with the stick, “who’s this?”
“O, dear! so you’ve caught me,” said Brian, “who are you?”
“Ah, ha! I’ve caught you, have I? I’ll let you know who I am. Here, Mr. Mungavan! Mr. Mungavan! quick! come out! jump up! here’s a man staylin’ your cabbages! Take that, you scoundrel; how dare you come here!” And here Mehicle began whacking him as hard as he could.
“Don’t strike me!” said Brian, “don’t! I’ll do any thing you like. Oh! Oh! don’t! Don’t you see it’s me that’s here?”
“O, I see you well enough! Come out, Mr. Mungavan!” said Mehicle, continuing to beat him.