“Have at thy chops, slave!” cried Percival melodramatically as they passed along through groves of cabbages, batteries of turnips, golden vistas of carrots, groups of women engaged in shelling peas.
The two entered the tavern, and, having seated themselves in a sort of loose box constructed of black oak, with a table set in the middle, Pommery gave the order to a waiter whose pronounced accent bespoke an intimate acquaintance with the road that leads from the Upper Lake at Killarney to Gougawn Barra. He was an honest-looking, open-faced, elderly man, civil without being servile, and the possessor of a twinkle in the corner of his eye that proclaimed the land of his nativity equally with his unctuous and oily brogue.
A loud rapping on the table in the next compartment made itself heard, while an authoritative voice called:
“Has that sheep been caught yet?”
“It’s on the fire, sir,” responded the waiter.
“I suppose you intend that as a sample of Irish wit.” This said with a sneer.
“Troth, mebbe it’s good enough for—” and the man checked himself.
“Let me have none of your impertinence, fellow. You Irish require to be kept under heel, every one of you.”
“Do we?”
“You do, and it takes an Englishman to do it.”