“See that, now,” gloomily; but, brightening up, he added: “Sorra a haporth to hindher us from cuttin’ it long ago, av it was only ripe enough.”
“An Irish peasant will never admit Saxon superiority in anything,” said my mother, placing her arm about Mabel’s waist. “What ‘yokes’ have you out to-day, Peter?”
“The shay for you, ma’am, and the young leddy there; though I’m afeared it’s not as nate as it ought for to be, be raisin av a rogue av a hin—a red wan, full av consait an’ impidence—makin’ her nest right—”
“Here, Peter,” I cried, to put a stop to these hideous revelations, “get my car round at once.” I could have strangled him.
As all English visitors to Ireland are possessed of a frantic desire to experience the jolting of an Irish jaunting-car, I ordered my own special conveyance round, also from the workshop of Bates—a low, rakish-looking craft, with a very deep well for the dogs when going out shooting, and bright yellow corduroy cushions; an idea of my own, and upon which I rather piqued myself. Harry Welstone and the ladies came to the doorsteps to see us off, and while he explained the beauties of the chariot to Miss Hawthorne I endeavored to initiate her father into the mysteries of clinging on, advising him not to clutch the front and back rail so convulsively, but rather to allow his body to swing with every motion of the vehicle, and above all things to trust to luck.
“Lave yourself as if ye wor a sack o’ male, sir,” suggested Peter, who was charioteer, “or as if ye had a sup in. Sorra a man that was full ever dhropped off av a car, barrin’ Murty Flinn; an’ shure that was not his fault aither, for it was intirely be raisin av a bargain he med wud a lump av a mare he was dhrivin’ at that time.”
“Who was Murty Flinn, Peter?” asked Miss Hawthorne.
“A dacent boy, miss, that lives beyant at the crass-roads—a rale hayro for sperits,” was the prompt response, accompanied by a semi-military salute.
“And how did he fall off the car?”
“Troth, thin, mavourneen, it wasn’t Murty that fell aff av the car, so much as that the car fell aff av Murty; an’ this is how it happened: Murty was comin’ from the fair av Bohernacopple, where he wint for to sell a little slip av a calf, an’ afore he left the fair he tuk several gollioges av sperits, an’ had a cupple uv haits wud Phil Clancy, the red-hedded wan—not Phil av Tubbermory—an’ he was bet up intirely betune the whiskey an’ the rounds wud red Clancy, so that whin he cum for to make for home he was hard set for to yoke the mare, an’ harder set agin for to mount to his sate on the car. But Murty is the persevarionist man ye ever laid yer two purty eyes on, miss, an’ he ruz himself into the sate afther a tremendjus battle; and th’ ould mare, whin she seen that he was comfortable, tuk the road like a Christian mare. Well, Murty rowled backwards an’ forwards, an’ every joult av the car ye’d think wud sind him on the crown av his caubeen; but, be me song, he was as secure as a prisner in Botany Bay, an’ it’s a sailor he thought he was, up in a hammock no less. Well, miss, the night was a little dark an’ the road was shaded wud threes, an’ whin they cum to th’ ould graveyard at Killencanick never a fut the mare ‘ud go farther.