“Mind yer eye, Dick!” said the ould gentleman from the parlour.
“Don’t take any thing but what’s ready,” cried the priest from the hall door.
“Remember you’re of the Coolavins by the mother’s side,” called my lady from her bed-room; “so look to blood as well as suet, Dick.”
“The money—the money,” cried the priest.
“Dick, dear, ye’re on book-oath to me!” whispered Mary Regan, as we passed her.
“Don’t be quarrelling about trifles,” said the priest.
“Nor let any body tramp upon your corn, for all that,’ cried Sir Thomas.
“The money—the money, Dick—and that’s the last words of ye’r clargy,” roared the priest.
“Don’t miss mass, if you can,” screamed the ould ladies from the lobby. “Ara-gud-neeish!” ** and father Butler signed his blessing after us as we rode away.
“Stop! stop!” roared the ould master. “Another word, and God keep ye, Dick! Always fight with ye’r back to the sun. Drink slow—don’t mix ye’r licker, nor sit with ye’r baek to the fire—and the divil won’t put ye under the table!”