Chapter V

But thin, it was maybe a couple o’ twelve-months from whin he set out,
We began to misdoubt some bad luck, till at last we done worse than misdoubt,
For the throuble crep’ closer each day; so I’ve watched a fog dhrift up the shore
Wipin’ out one by one every field glintin’ green in the sun just before.
An’ to my mind that throuble’s the worst, whin the time keeps jog-throttin’ along,
An’ because nothin’ happens at all, ye get certiner somethin’s gone wrong.
For if grief’s to befall ye, I’d liefer ’twould lape on ye suddint when laste
Ye expect, an’ grip hould o’ your heart like some nathural sort o’ wild baste,
Than come slitherin’ by like a snake, an’ be prickin’ your fut wid its sting
That’ill send the death crawlin’ in could thro’ your limbs. But ’twas just such a thing
Wid the young master’s letters. For, first time one missed, all we said was the post
Had delayed it belike; an’ next mail-day we said one might aisy be lost
Comin’ that far; an’ time an’ agin we’d be sayin’: ‘Och, musha, if aught
Would ha’ happint him, some one’d ha’ wrote fast enough wid the news’; but we thought
It was quare. Till at last we were dhruv to believe that he’d surely been tuk
Wid some fever, or met wid a hurt, and be thravellin’ far off, be bad luck,
And had died all alone, wid the sorra a friend to be sendin’ home word;
Or what else was the raison that year afther year tale nor tidings we heard?