“It’s a fine billet, Murty.”
“Sorra a finer. Shure it bates Lord Sligo’s an’ Mitchell Hinry’s beyant at Kylemore; an’ as for atin’ an’ dhrinkin’, be me song they say that lamb-chops is as plentiful as cabbages is here, an’ that there’s as much sperrits in it as wud float ould Mickey Killeher’s lugger.”
“It’s a quare thing for Misther Jyvecote for to be axin’ Father Maurice to a forrin’ cunthry like that, Murty.”
“Troth, thin, it is quare, ma’am; but, shure, mebbe he wants for to be convarted.”
“That must be it; an’ he’d be bet intirely, av Father Maurice wasn’t there for to back his tack. His sermon last Sunda’ was fit for the Pope o’ Room.”
“I never heerd the like av it. It flogged Europe. Whisht!” suddenly cried Murty, “who’s this comin’ up the shore?”
“It’s a forriner,” exclaimed the housekeeper, after a prolonged scrutiny—meaning by the term foreigner that the person who was now approaching the cottage was not an inhabitant of the village. “A fine, souple boy,” she added admiringly.
“It’s a gintleman, an’ he has a lump av a stick in his hand,” said Murty.
“Arrah! what wud bring a gintleman here, ye omadhawn?” observed Mrs. Clancy with some asperity.
“A thraveller, thin,” suggested her companion. “He’s a bag on his back.”