“Never fear, yer Reverence, never fear; I think you ought to know that the grazin' at Corraghnamoddagh's not bad.”
“To do you justice, Jack, the mutton was always good with you, only if you would get it better killed it would be an improvement. Get Tom McCusker to kill it, and then it'll have the right smack.”
“Very well, yer Rev'rence, I'll do it.”
“On Tuesday, in Peter Murtagh's of the Crooked Commons. Are you there, Peter?”
“Here, yer Reverence.”
“Indeed, Peter, I might know you are here; and I wish that a great many of my flock would take example by you: if they did, I wouldn't be so far behind in getting in my dues. Well, Peter, I suppose you know that this is Michaelmas?” *
* Michaelmas is here jocularly alluded to as that period
of the year when geese are fattest.
“So fat, yer Reverence, that they're not able to wag; but, any way, Katty has them marked for you—two fine young crathurs, only this year's fowl, and the ducks isn't a taste behind them—she crammin' them this month past.”
“I believe you, Peter, and I would take your word for more than the condition of the geese. Remember me to Katty, Peter.”
“On Wednesday, in Parrah More Slevin's of Mullaghfadh. Are you there, Parrah More?”—No answer. “Parrah More Sle-vin?”—Silence. “Parrah More Slevin, of Mullaghfadh?”—No reply. “Dan Fagan?”