“What! and quit my father’s service? Think well of this, Marc.”
“Why, troth, I can’t hold the place, and all on account of an accident.”
“Indeed! what happened you?”
Marc picked the hat anew. “I’m in the middle of trouble, and the sooner I’m off, the better.”
“Broken heads or broken vows; or, probably, a mixture of both?”
“Devil a head I broke since the fair of Carrick, and the Carneys brought it on themselves; and in honesty I’m at every man’s defiance,” returned the fosterer.
“Then what would you do in England, may I ask?”
“What would I do in England?” he repeated, like an echo. “Can’t I do anything?—shear, mow, wisp a horse, whip hounds, jump two-and-twenty feet, throw stone and sledge—and take my own part in fair and pattern?”
“Friend Marc, most of these accomplishments would only secure you a lodging in the cage, or a settlement in the stocks. But, in a word, what brings you away?”
“Just Biddy O’Dwyer, the dairymaid—the devil’s luck attend her!”