Chapter XI: Part 11

"Please God you'll not meet her! After all, it's not once in a blue moon that she----" began Flurry. Even as he said the words his face changed. "Holy fly!" he ejaculated, "isn't that her dog coming into the field? Look at her bonnet over the wall! Hide, hide, for your life!" He caught me by the shoulder and shoved me down among the furze bushes before I realised what had happened.

"Get in there! I'll talk to her."

I may as well confess that at the mere sight of Mrs. Knox's purple bonnet my heart had turned to water. In that moment I knew what it would be like to tell her how I, having eaten her salmon, and capped her quotations, and drunk her best port, had gone forth and helped to steal her horse. I abandoned my dignity, my sense of honour; I took the furze prickles to my breast and wallowed in them.

Mrs. Knox had advanced with vengeful speed; already she was in high altercation with Flurry at no great distance from where I lay; varying sounds of battle reached me, and I gathered that Flurry was not--to put it mildly--shrinking from that economy of truth that the situation required.

"Is it that curby, long-backed brute? You promised him to me long ago, but I wouldn't be bothered with him."

The old lady uttered a laugh of shrill derision. "Is it likely I'd promise you my best colt? And still more, is it likely that you'd refuse him if I did?"

"Very well, ma'am," Flurry's voice was admirably indignant. "Then I suppose I'm a liar and a thief."

"I'd be more obliged to you for the information if I hadn't known it before," responded his grandmother with lightning speed; "if you swore to me on a stack of Bibles you knew nothing about my colt I wouldn't believe you! I shall go straight to Major Yeates and ask his advice. I believe him to be a gentleman, in spite of the company he keeps!"

I writhed deeper into the furze bushes, and thereby discovered a sandy rabbit run, along which I crawled, with my cap well over my eyes, and the furze needles stabbing me through my stockings. The ground shelved a little, promising profounder concealment, but the bushes were very thick, and I had hold of the bare stem of one to help my progress. It lifted out of the ground in my hand, revealing a freshly-cut stump. Something snorted, not a yard away; I glared through the opening, and was confronted by the long, horrified face of Mrs. Knox's colt, mysteriously on a level with my own.

Even without the white diamond on his forehead I should have divined the truth; but how in the name of wonder had Flurry persuaded him to couch like a woodcock in the heart of a furze brake? For a minute I lay as still as death for fear of frightening him, while the voices of Flurry and his grandmother raged on alarmingly close to me. The colt snorted, and blew long breaths through his wide nostrils, but he did not move. I crawled an inch or two nearer, and after a few seconds of cautious peering I grasped the position. They had buried him!

A small sandpit among the furze had been utilised as a grave; they had filled him in up to his withers with sand, and a few furze bushes, artistically disposed round the pit had done the rest. As the depth of Flurry's guile was revealed, laughter came upon me like a flood; I gurgled and shook apoplectically, and the colt gazed at me with serious surprise, until a sudden outburst of barking close to my elbow administered a fresh shock to my tottering nerves.

Mrs. Knox's woolly dog had tracked me into the furze, and was now baying the colt and me with mingled terror and indignation. I addressed him in a whisper, with perfidious endearments, advancing a crafty hand towards him the while, made a snatch for the back of his neck, missed it badly, and got him by the ragged fleece of his hind-quarters as he tried to flee. If I had flayed him alive he could hardly have uttered a more deafening series of yells, but, like a fool, instead of letting him go, I dragged him towards me, and tried to stifle the noise by holding his muzzle. The tussle lasted engrossingly for a few seconds, and then the climax of the nightmare arrived.

Mrs. Knox's voice, close behind me, said, "Let go my dog this instant, sir! Who are you----"

Her voice faded away, and I knew that she also had seen the colt's head.

I positively felt sorry for her. At her age there was no knowing what effect the shock might have on her. I scrambled to my feet and confronted her.

"Major Yeates!" she said. There was a deathly pause. "Will you kindly tell me," said Mrs. Knox, slowly, "am I in Bedlam, or are you? And what is that?"

She pointed to the colt, and the unfortunate animal, recognising the voice of his mistress, uttered a hoarse and lamentable whinny. Mrs. Knox felt around her for support, found only furze prickles, gazed speechlessly at me, and then, to her eternal honour, fell into wild cackles of laughter.

So, I may say, did Flurry and I. I embarked on my explanation and broke down. Flurry followed suit and broke down, too. Overwhelming laughter held us all three, disintegrating our very souls. Mrs. Knox pulled herself together first.

"I acquit you, Major Yeates, I acquit you, though appearances are against you. It's clear enough to me you've fallen among thieves." She stopped and glowered at Flurry. Her purple bonnet was over one eye. "I'll thank you, sir," she said, "to dig out that horse before I leave this place. And when you've dug him out you may keep him. I'll be no receiver of stolen goods!"

She broke off and shook her fist at him. "Upon my conscience, Tony, I'd give a guinea to have thought of it myself!"

The Wee Tea Table.

_From "Irish Pastorals."_

BY SHAN BULLOCK (1865--).

Somewhere near the hill-hedge, with their arms bare, skirts tucked up, and faces peering from the depths of big sunbonnets, Anne Daly and Judy Brady were gathering the hay into long, narrow rows; one raking this side of a row, the other that, and both sweetening toil with laughter and talk. Sometimes Anne leaned on her rake and chattered for a while; now Judy said a word or two and ended with a titter; again, both bobbed heads and broke into merriment. I came nearer to them, got ready my rake, and began on a fresh row.

The talk was of a woman, of her and her absurdities.

"I've come to help you to laugh, Anne," said I. "What friend is this of yours and Judy's that you're stripping of her character?"

"The lassie," said Anne, "we were talkin' about is a marrit woman--one Hannah Breen be name--an' she lives in a big house on the side of a hill over there towards the mountain. The husband's a farmer--an easy-goin', bull-voiced, good-hearted lump of a man, wi' a good word for ould Satan himself, an' a laugh always ready for iverything. But the wife, Hannah, isn't that kind. Aw, 'deed she isn't. 'Tisn't much good-speakin' or laughin' Hannah'll be doin'; 'tisn't herself'd get many cars to follow her funeral in these parts. Aw, no. 'Tisn't milkin' the cows, an' makin' the butter, an' washin' John's shirts, an' darnin' his socks, an' mendin' her own tatters, an' huntin' the chickens from the porridge-pot, Hannah was made for. Aw, no. It's a lady Hannah must be, a real live lady. It's step out o' bed at eight o'clock in the mornin', Hannah must do, an' slither down to her tay an' have it all in grandeur in the parlour; it's sittin' half the day she must be, readin' about the doin's o' the quality, an' the goin's on o' the world, an' squintin' at fashion-pictures, an' fillin' her mind wi' the height o' nonsense an' foolery; it's rise from the table in a tantrum she must do because John smacks his lips, an' ates his cabbage wi' his knife; it's worry the poor man out o' his mind she'd be after because he lies and snores on the kitchen table, an' smokes up to bed, an' won't shave more'n once a week, an' says he'd rather be hanged at once nor be choked up in a white shirt an' collar o' Sundays. An' for herself--aw, now, it'd take me from this till sunset to tell ye about all her fooleries. If you'd only see her, Mr. John, stalkin' in through the chapel gates, wi' her skirts tucked up high enough to show the frillin' on her white petticoat, an' low enough to hide the big tear in it; an' black kid gloves on her fists; an' a bonnet on her wi'out a string to it; an' light shoes on her; an' a big hole in the heel o' her stockin'; and her nose in the air; an' her sniffin' at us all just as if we were the tenants at the butter-show an' herself My Lady come to prance before us all an' make herself agreeable for five minutes or so.... Aw, Lord, Lord," laughed Anne, "if ye could only see her, Mr. John."

"An' to see her steppin' down Bunn Street," Anne went on, as we turned at the hedge, and set our faces once more towards the river, "as if the town belonged to her--a ribbon flutterin' here, an' a buckle shinin' there, an' a feather danglin' another place--steppin' along wi' her butter-basket on her arm, an' big John draggin' at her heels, an' that look on her face you'd expect to see on the face o' the Queen o' France walkin' on a gold carpet, in goold slippers, to a goold throne! An' to see the airs of her when someone'd spake; an' to see the murderin' look on her when someone'd hint at a drop o'whiskey for the good of her health; an' to hear the beautiful talk of her to the butter-buyers--that soft an' po-lite; an' to see her sittin' in the ould ramshackle of a cart goin' home, as straight in the back an' as stiff as a ramrod, an' her face set like a plaster image, an' her niver lettin' her eye fall on John sittin' beside her, an' him as drunk an' merry as a houseful o' fiddlers! Aw, sure," cried Anne, flinging up a hand, "aw, sure, it's past the power o' mortial tongue to tell about her."

"Yours, Anne, makes a good attempt at the telling, for all that," said I.

"Ach, I'm only bleatherin'," said Anne. "If ye only knew her--only did."

"Well, tell me all about her," said I, "before your tongue gets tired."

"Ah, sure, an' I will," replied she; "sure, an' I'll try me hand at it."

"One day, then, sometime last summer, Hannah--beggin' her ladyship's pardon," said Anne, a sudden note of scorn rasping in her voice, "but I meant Mrs. Breen--decks herself out, ties on her bonnet, pulls on her kid gloves, an' steps out through the hall door. Down she goes, over the ruts an' the stones, along the lane, turns down the main road; after a while comes to the house o' Mrs. Flaherty--herself that told me--crosses the street, an' knocks po-lite on the door.

"'Aw, is Mrs. Flaherty at home, this fine day?' axes Hannah when the door opens, an' wee Nancy put her tattered head between it an' the post. 'Is Mrs. Flaherty at home?' says she.

"'She is so,' answers Nancy; 'but she'd be out at the well,' says the wee crature.

"'I see,' says Hannah, 'I see. Then, if you please, when she comes back,' says she, 'would you be kindly handin' her that, wi' Mrs. Breen's compliments'--an' out of her pocket Hannah pulls a letter, gives it to Nancy, says good evenin' to the wee mortial, gathers up her skirt, an' steps off in her grandeur through the hens an' ducks back to the road. Well, on she goes another piece, an' comes to the house of Mary Dolan; an' there, too, faith, she does the genteel an' leaves another letter an' turns her feet for the house of Mrs. Hogan; an' at Sally's she smiles, an' bobs her head, an' pulls another letter from her pocket, an' leaves it at the door; then twists on her heel, turns back home an' begins dustin' the parlours, an' arrangin' her trumpery an' readin' bleather from the fashion papers.

"Very well, childer. Home Jane comes from the well, an' there's Nancy wi' the letter in her fist. 'What the divil's this?' says Jane, an' tears it open; an' there, lo an' behold ye, is a bit of a card--Jane swears 'twas a piece of a bandbox, but I'd be disbelievin' her--an' on it an invite to come an' have tay with me bould Hannah, on the next Wednesday evenin' at five o'clock p.m.--whativer in glory p.m. may be after meanin'; when Mary Dolan opens hers, there's the same invite; an' when Sally Hogan opens hers, out drops the same bit of a card on the floor; an' Sally laughs, an' Mary laughs, an' Jane laughs, an' the three o' them, what wi' the quareness o' the business, an' the curiosity of them to see Hannah at her capers, put their heads together, an' laughs again, an' settles it that sorrow take them, but go they'll go. An' go they did. Aw, yis ... Aw, Lord, Lord," laughed Anne, turning up her eyes. "Lord, Lord!"

"Aw, childer, dear," giggled Judy, with a heaving of her narrow shoulders. "Aw, go they did!"

"Good girl, Anne," said I, and slapped my leg "my roarin' girl! Aw, an' go they did, Judy--go they did."

"Well, hearts alive," Anne went on, "Wednesday evenin' comes at last; an' sharp at five o'clock up me brave Jane Flaherty steps along the lane, crosses the yard, an' mindin' her manners, knocks twice on Hannah's back door--then turns, an' wi' the dog yelpin' at her, an' the gander hissin' like a wet stick on a fire, waits like a beggarwoman on the step. But divil a one comes to the door; aw, not a one. An' sorrow a soul budged inside; aw, not a soul. So round turns Jane, lifts her fist again, hits the door three thundering bangs, an' looks another while at the gander. Not a budge in the door, not a move inside; so Jane, not to be done out of her tay, lifts the latch,--an', sure as the sun was shinin', but the bolt was shot inside. 'Well, dang me,' says Jane, an' hits the door a kick, 'but this is a fine way to treat company,' says she, an' rattles the latch, an' shakes it. At last, in the divil of a temper, spits on the step, whips up her skirts, an' cursin' Hannah high up an' low down, starts for home.

"She got as far as the bend in the lane, an' there meets Mary Dolan.

"'What's up?' axes Mary. 'What's floostered ye, Jane Flaherty? Aren't ye goin' to have your tay, me dear?' says Mary.

"'Aw, may the first sup she swallows choke the breath in her,' shouts Jane, an' goes on to tell her story; an' before she'd said ten words, up comes Sally Hogan.

"'Am I too late?' says Sally, 'or am I too early?' says she, 'or what in glory ails the two o' ye?'

"'Ails?' shouts Jane. 'Ye may well say that, Sally Hogan. Ye may turn on your heel,' says she, an' begins her story again; an' before she was half through it Sally laughs out, and takes Jane by the arm, an' starts back to the house.

"'Come away,' says she; 'come away an' have your tay, Jane; sure, ye don't know Hannah yet.'

"So back the three goes--but not through the yard. Aw, no. 'Twas through the wee green gate, an' down the walk, an' slap up to the hall door Sally takes them; an' sure enough the first dab on the knocker brings a fut on the flags inside, an' there's Kitty, the servant girl, in her boots an' her stockin's, an' her Sunday dress an' a white apron on her, standin' before them.

"'Aw, an' is that you, Kitty Malone,' says Sally. 'An' how's yourself, Kitty, me dear? An' wid Mrs. Breen be inside?' says she.

"'She is so, Mrs. Hogan,' answers Kitty, an' bobs a kind of curtsy. 'Wid ye all be steppin' in, please?'

"'Aw, the Lord's sake,' gasps Sally on the door step, at all this grandeur; 'the Lord's sake,' says she, an' steps into the hall; an' in steps Mary Dolan, an' in steps Jane Flaherty, an' away the three o' them goes at Kitty's heels up to the parlour.... 'Aw, heavenly hour,' cried Anne, and turned up her eyes.

"Well, dears," Anne went on, "in the three walks, bonnets an' all, an' sits them down along the wall on three chairs, an' watches Kitty close the door; then looks at each other in a puzzled kind o' way, an', after that, without openin' a lip, casts their eyes about the room. 'Twas the funniest kind of a place, Jane allowed, that iver she dropped eyes on. There was a sheep-skin, lyin' woolly side up, in front o' the fireplace, an' a calf-skin near the windy, an' a dog's skin over be the table, an' the floor was painted brown about three fut all round the walls. There was pieces of windy-curtain over the backs o' the chairs; there was a big fern growin' in an ould drain-pipe in the corner; there was an ould straw hat o' John's stuffed full o' flowers an' it hangin' on the wall, an' here an' there, all round it an' beside it were picters cut from the papers an' then tacked on the plaster. Ye could hardly see the mantelshelf, Jane allowed, for all the trumpery was piled on it, dinglum-danglums of glass an' chaney, an' shells from the say, an' a sampler stuck in a frame, an' in the middle of all a picter of Hannah herself got up in all her finery. An' there was books, an' papers, an' fal-lals, an' the sorrow knows what, lyin' about; an' standin' against the wall, facin' the windy, was a wee table, wi' a cloth on it about the size of an apron, an' it wi' a fringe on it, no less, an' it spread skew-wise an' lookin' for all the world like a white ace o' diamonds; an' on the cloth was a tray wi' cups an' saucers, an' sugar an' milk, an' as much bread an' butter, cut as thin as glass, as you'd give a sick child for its supper.... 'Aw, heavenly hour,' cried Anne, 'heavenly hour!'

"Aw, childer, dear," cried Judy.

"Aw, woman alive," said I. "Aw, Judy, dear."

"Well, childer, the three looks at all, an' looks at each other, an' shifts on their chairs, an' looks at each other again, an' says Mary Dolan at last:--

"'We're in clover, me dears,' says she, 'judgin' be the spread beyont'--and she nods at the wee table.

"'Ah that'il do for a start,' says Sally Hogan; 'but where in glory are we all to put our legs under that wee table? Sure it'l be an ojus squeeze.'

"'It will so,' says Jane Flaherty, 'it will so. But isn't it powerful quare o' Hannah to keep us sittin' here so long in our bonnets an' shawls, an' us dreepin' wi' the heat?'

"'It's the quarest hole I iver was put in,' says Mary Dolan, 'an' if this is grandeur, give me the ould kitchen at home wi' me feet on the hearth an' me tay on a chair.... Phew,' says Mary, an' squints round at the windy, 'phew, but it's flamin' hot! Aw,' says she, an' makes a dart from her chair, 'dang me, but I'll burst if I don't get a mouthful o' fresh air.' An' just as she had her hand on the sash to lift it, the door opens an' in steps me darlin' Hannah.

"'Good evenin', ladies all," says Hannah, marchin' in wi' some kind of a calico affair, made like a shroud wi' frills on it, hangin' on her, 'Good evenin', ladies,' says she, an' wi' her elbow cocked up in the air as if she was strivin' to scrape it against the ceilin', goes from one to another an' shakes hands. 'It's a very pleasant afternoon' (them was the words), says she, makin' for a chair beside the wee table; 'an' I'm very pleased to see ye all,' says she.

"'Aw, an' the same here,' says Mary Dolan, in her free way, 'the same here; an' ojus nice ye look in that sack of a calico dress, so ye do,' says Mary, wi' a wink at Jane Flaherty. 'But it's meself'd feel obliged to ye if so be ye'd open the windy an' give us a mouthful o' fresh air,' says Mary.

"An' Hannah sits down in her shroud wi' the frills on it, an' smiles, an' says she, 'I'm rather delicate' (them were the words) 'this afternoon, Mrs. Dolan, an' afeered o' catchin' cold; an', forby that,' says she, 'the dust is so injurious for the parlour.'

"'Aw, just so,' answers Mary, 'just so. Sure, I wouldn't for worlds have ye spoil your parlour for the likes of us. But I'll ax your leave, Mrs. Breen, seein' ye don't ax me yourself, to give me own health a chance,' says she, 'be throwin' this big shawl off me shoulders.'

"'But it's afternoon tay, Mrs. Dolan,' answers Hannah, in her cool way; 'an' it's not fashionable at afternoon tay for ladies to remove--'

"'Then afternoon tay be danged,' says Mary, an' throws the shawl off her across the back of her chair; 'an' it's meself'll not swelter for all the fashions in the world,' says she, an' pushes her bonnet back an' lets it hang be the strings down her back. 'Aw, that's great,' says she, wi' a big sigh; an' at that off goes Jane's shawl an' bonnet, an' off goes Sally's; an' there the three o' them sits, wi' Hannah lookin' at them disgusted as an ass at a field of thistles over a gate.... Aw, glory be," cried Anne.

"Aw, me bould Anne," cried Judy; "me brave girl."

"Well, dears, Hannah sits her down, puts her elbow on a corner o' the ace o' diamonds, rests her cheek on her hand, an' goes on talking about this and that. She hoped Mrs. Flaherty, an' Mrs. Dolan, an' Mrs. Hogan were well an' prosperous; she hoped the crops were turnin' out well; she hoped all the childer were in the best o' good health. Aw, like the Queen o' Connaught Hannah talked, an' smiled, an' aired herself an' her beautiful English, but sorrow a move did she make to shift her elbow off the wee table-cloth, an' divil a sign or smell o' tay was there to be seen. Aw, not a one. Ten minutes went, an' twenty, an' half an hour; an' at that, up Mary Dolan stretched her arms, gives a powerful big yawn, an', says she, 'Och, dear Lord,' says she, 'dear Lord, but the throat's dry in me! Och, och,' says she--an' with the hint up gets Hannah in her frilled shroud, crosses the calf-skin, opens the door, an' calls for Kitty. 'Yis, Mrs. Breen,' answers Kitty from the Kitchen. 'Serve tay,' calls Hannah; then closes the door an' steps back to her chair by the wee table.

"In about ten minutes, here comes me darlint Kitty, boots an' stockin's an' all; carries the taypot on a plate over to the table, an' plants it down slap in the middle o' the ace o' diamonds. Up jumps Hannah wi' a bounce.

"'What are you doin' Kitty?' says she, with a snap of her jaw, an' lifts the taypot, an' glares at the black ring it had made on her brand new cloth. 'D'ye see what you've done?' says she, pointin' her finger, 'stand back and mend your manners, ye ignorant little baggage, ye!'--

"'Yis, ma'am,' answers Kitty, an' stands back; then turns her head, when she gets to the calf-skin, an' winks at the three sittin' by the wall; an' out Mary Dolan bursts into a splutter of a laugh.

"'Aw, Lord,' says Mary, an' holds her ribs; 'aw, dear Lord,' says she. But Hannah, standin' pourin' tay into the wee cups, just kept her face as straight as if Mary was a dummy, an' in a minute she turns round to Kitty.

"'Hand the cups to the ladies,' says she, an' sits her down.

"Well, childer dear, Kitty steps from the calf-skin, lifts two cups an' saucers from the tray, carries them across the floor, an' offers one to Jane Flaherty, wi' this hand, an' t'other to Sally Hogan wi' that hand. An' Sally looks at the cup, an' then at Kitty; an' Jane looks at Kitty, an' then at the cup, an' says Sally:

"'Is it take it from ye you'd have me do, Kitty Malone?' says she.

"'It is so,' answers Kitty wi' a grin.

"'An' where in glory wid ye have me put it, Kitty Malone?' asks Sally an' looks here an' there. 'Sure--sure, there's no table next or near me,' says she.

"'It's afternoon tay, Mrs. Hogan,' says Hannah across the floor; 'an' at afternoon tay, tables aren't fashionable,' says she, an' grins to herself.

"'Well, thank God, Hannah Breen,' says Mary Dolan, 'that afternoon tay, as ye call it, has only come my way once in me life. Take the cup in your fist, Sally Hogan,' says Mary, 'an' if ye break it, bad luck go with it, an' if ye don't, you've been a lady for once in your life; an' when you're done, stick it there on the floor. I'm obliged to ye, Kitty Malone,' says Mary again, an' takes a cup; 'an' if so be I choke meself wi' the full o' this thimble wi' a handle on it,' says Mary, an' squints at the cup, 'you'll do me the favour to tell Pat I died a fool. An' if such things go well wi' afternoon tay, Kitty, agra, I'd trouble ye for a look at a spoon.' "... Aw, me bould Mary," cried Anne and laughed in her glee. "Ye were the girl for Hannah, so ye were."

"Aw, 'deed ay," cried Judy, and tittered most boisterously. "Aw, me brave Hannah."

"Then begins the fun, me dears. First of all, Sally Hogan, in trying to lift a bit o' bread an' butter from a plate that Kitty held before her, must spill her tay over her lap an' start screechin' that she was kilt. Then Mary Dolan must finish her cup at a gulp, an' forgettin' it was in Hannah's parlour she was at afternoon tay, an' not at home in the kitchen, must give the dregs a swirl an' sling them over her shoulder against the wall. Then Sally Hogan again, in tryin' to keep back a laugh at the tay leaves on the wall, an' the glare of Hannah across at them, must get a crumb in her throat an' bring the whole room to thump her on the back.

"Then Jane Flaherty gets a second cup wi' no sugar in it, an' makes a face like a monkey's, an' gives a big splutter, an' sets Kitty Malone off into a fit o' laughin'; an' Kitty sets Jane off, an' Jane sets Mary off, an' Mary sets Sally off; an' there sits Hannah in her calico shroud, beside the ace of diamonds, wi' a face on her like a child cuttin' its teeth, an' her arm out, an' her shoutin' for Kitty to take herself out o' the room. An' in the middle o' the whole hubbub the door opens, an' in tramps big John in his dirty boots, wi' his shirt-sleeves turned up, an' hay ropes round his legs, an' his hat on the back o' his head, an' his pipe in his mouth--in steps John, an' stands lookin' at them all.

"'Ho, ho,' roars John, an' marches across the calf-skin. 'What have we here? A tay party,' says he, 'as I'm a livin' sinner--an' me not to know a thing about it! Well, better late nor niver,' says he, then turns an' looks at Hannah. 'Aw, how d'ye do, Mrs. Breen? says he, wi' a laugh. 'I hope I see ye well in your regimentals. An' how the blazes are the rest o' ye, me girls?' says he to the three along the wall. 'I'm glad to see ye all so hearty an' merry, so I am. But what in glory are ye all doin' over there, away from the table? Why don't ye sit an' have your tay like Christians?' says he. 'Come over, girls--come over this mortial minute,' says John,'an' I'll have a cup wi' ye meself, so I will.'

"Then Hannah rises in her calico shroud.

"'John,' says she, 'it's afternoon tay it'll be, an tables--'

"'Aw, sit ye down, Hannah,' shouts John, 'sit ye down, woman, an' be like another for once in a way.'

"'John,' says Hannah, again, an' looks knives an' forks at him, 'where's your manners the day?'

"'Aw, manners be danged,' roars John, an' throws his hat into the corner; 'give us a cup o' tay an' quit your nonsense. Come on, girls,' says he to the women, 'come over, an' have a cup in comfort wi' me here at the table.'

"'John!' says Hannah again, 'ye can't sit at this table; it's--it's too small,' says she.

"'Then pull it out from the wall,' roars John, 'pull it out and let us get round it. Come on,' says he, an' grips an end o' the table, 'give it a lift across the floor!'

"'No, no, John,' shouts Hannah, an' grips t'other end to keep it from goin'; 'ye mustn't, John!'

"'Out wi' it,' roars John again.

"'No, no,' shouts Hannah, 'ye can't--aw, ye can't--aw, ye mustn'--no, no, John!'

"'Aw, to glory wi' you an' it,' shouts John. 'Here let me at it meself!...'

"An' the next minute Hannah was screechin' in her shroud; an' there was a clatter o' crockery, like as if a bull had gone slap at a dresser; an' John was standin' like as if he was shot, in the middle of the floor; an' lyin' at his feet was the wee table, an' the ace of diamonds, an' the whole o' Hannah's cups an' saucers, an' the taypot, an' all, in a thousand pieces.... Aw, heart alive ... heart alive!..."

Anne leant upon her rake and bowed her head in laughter. Two minutes grace she had; then said I:

"What had happened, Anne?"

She looked at me. "Happened? Sure, the table was only an ould dressin'-table, an' had only three legs, an' was propped wi' the lame side against the wall; an' when John put it down in the middle of the floor--Aw, now," cried Anne, "that's enough, that's enough.... Aw, me sides--me sides."

"Aw, me sides--me sides," cried Judy, shaking below her big sun-bonnet. "Te-he!"

"Aw, women alive," cried I, sinking back on the hay. "Haw, haw!"

The Interpreters.

_From "The Adventures of Dr. Whitty."_

BY GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM.

At the end of January, after three weeks of violently stormy weather, the American barque, "Kentucky," went ashore at Carrigwee, the headland which guards the northern end of Ballintra. She struck first on some rocks a mile from the shore, drifted over them and among them, and was washed up, frightfully shattered, on the mainland. The captain and the crew were saved, and made their way into the town of Ballintra. They were dispatched thence to Liverpool, all of them, except one sailor, a forecastle hand, whose right leg had been broken by a falling spar. This man was brought into Ballintra in a cart by Michael Geraghty, and taken to the workhouse hospital. He arrived in a state of complete collapse, and Dr. Whitty was sent for at once.

The sailor turned out to be a man of great strength and vigour. He recovered from the effects of the long exposure rapidly, had his leg set, and was made as comfortable as the combined efforts of the whole workhouse hospital staff could make him. Then it was noticed that he did not speak a word to anyone, and was apparently unable to understand a word that was said to him. The master of the workhouse, after a consultation with the matron and the nurse, came to the conclusion that he must be a foreigner. Dr. Whitty was sent for again and the fact reported to him.

"I was thinking," said the master, "that you might be able to speak to him, doctor, so as he'd be able to understand what you said."

"Well, I can't," said the doctor. "I'm not a professional interpreter, but I don't see that it much matters whether you're able to talk to him or not. Give him his food. He'll understand the meaning of a cup of tea when it's offered him, whatever language he's accustomed to speak. That's all you need care about. As a matter of fact, he'll be just as well off without having you and the nurse and the matron sitting on the end of his bed and gossiping with him all day long."

"What's troubling me," said the master, "is that I've no way of finding out what religion he is."

"I don't see," said the doctor, "that his religion matters in the least to us. He's not going to die."

"I know that. But I have to enter his religion in the book. It's the rule that the religion of every inmate of the house or the hospital must be entered, and I'll get into trouble after if I don't do it."

"Well," said the doctor, "there's no use asking me about it. I can't talk to him any better than you can, and there isn't any way of telling by the feel of a man's leg whether he's a Catholic or a Protestant."

"That may be," said the master, who disliked this sort of flippant materialism, "but if I was to enter him down as a Catholic, and it turned out after that he was a Protestant, there'd be a row I'd never hear the end of; and if I was to have him down as a Protestant, and him being a Catholic all the time, there'd be a worse row."

Dr. Whitty was a good-natured man, and was always ready to help anyone who was in a difficulty. He felt for the master of the workhouse. He also had a natural taste for solving difficult problems, and the question of the sailor's religion attracted him.

"Tell me this, now," he said. "Had he any kind of a Prayer Book or a religious emblem of any sort on him when you were taking the clothes off him?"

"Not one. I looked myself, and the nurse went through his pockets after. Barring a lump of ship's tobacco and an old knife, there wasn't a thing on him."

"That's not much use to us," said the doctor. "I never heard of a religion yet that forbid the use of tobacco or objected to people carrying penknifes. If you'd found a bottle of whiskey on him, now, it might have helped us. We'd have known then that he wasn't a Mohammedan."

"What'll I do at all?"

"I'll tell you what it is," said the doctor. "I'll go round the town and I'll collect all the people in it that can speak any language besides English. I'll bring them up here and let them try him one by one. It'll be a queer thing if we can't find somebody that will be able to make him understand a simple question."

Dr. Whitty called first at the Imperial Hotel, and had an interview with Lizzie Glynn.

"Lizzie," he said, "you've had a good education at one of the most expensive convents in Ireland. Isn't that a fact?"

"It is," she said. "And I took a prize one time for playing the piano."

"It's not piano-playing that I expect from you now," said the doctor, "but languages. You speak French, of course?"

"I learned it," said Lizzie, "but I wouldn't say I could talk it very fast."

"Never mind how slow you go," said the doctor, "so long as you get it out in the end. Are you good at German?"

"I didn't learn German."

"Italian?"

"There was one of the sisters that knew Italian," said Lizzie, "but it wasn't taught regular."

"Russian? Spanish? Dutch?"

Lizzie shook her head.

"That's a pity. Never mind. I'll put you down for French, anyway. I'll take you up with me to the workhouse hospital at six o'clock this evening. I want you to speak French to a man that's there, one of the sailors out of the ship that was wrecked."

"I mightn't be fit," said Lizzie, doubtfully.

"Oh, yes, you will. Just look up the French for religion before you start, and get off the names of the principal kinds of religion in that language. All you have to do is to ask the man, 'What is your religion?' and then understand whatever it is he says to you by the way of an answer."

Dr. Whitty next called on Mr. Jackson and explained the situation to him. The rector, rather unwillingly, offered French, and seemed relieved when he was told that that language was already provided for.

"I thought," said the doctor, "that you'd be sure to know Greek."

"I do," said the Rector, "but not modern Greek."

"Is there much difference?"

"I don't know. I fancy there is."

"Well, look here, come up and try the poor fellow with ancient Greek. I expect he'll understand it if you talk slowly. All we want to get out of him is whether he's a Protestant or a Catholic."

"If he's a Greek at all," said the rector, "he'll probably not be either the one or the other."

"He's got to be one or the other while he's here. He can choose whichever happens to be the nearest thing to his own religion, whatever that is. Does Mrs. Jackson know Italian or Spanish?"

"No. I rather think she learned German at school, but I expect----"

"Capital. I'll put her down for German."

"I'm sure she's forgotten it now."

"Never mind. She can brush it up. There's not much wanted and she has till six o'clock this evening. I shall count on you both. Good-bye."

"By the way, doctor," said Mr. Jackson on the doorstep, "now I come to think of it, I don't believe there's a word in ancient Greek for Protestant."

"There must be. It's one of the most important and useful words in any language. How could the ancient Greeks possibly have got on without it?"

"There _isn't_. I'm perfectly sure there isn't."

"That's awkward. But never mind, you'll be able to get round it with some kind of paraphrase. After all, we can't leave the poor fellow without the consolations of religion in some form. Good-bye."

"And--and--Catholic in ancient Greek will mean something quite different, not in the least what it means now."

The doctor was gone. Mr. Jackson went back to his study and spent two hours wrestling with the contents of a lexicon. He arrived at the workhouse in the evening with a number of cryptic notes, the words lavishly accented, written down on small slips of paper.

Father Henaghan was the next person whom Dr. Whitty visited. At first he absolutely declined to help.

"The only language I could make any shift at speaking," he said "is Latin. And that would be no use to you. There isn't one sailor out of every thousand, outside of the officers of the Royal Navy, that would know six words of Latin."

"They tell me," said the doctor, "that there's no great difference between Latin and Spanish or Italian. Anyone that knows the one will make a pretty good push at understanding the others."

"Whoever told you that told you a lie," said the priest; "and, anyway, I'm not going near that man until I'm sure he's a Catholic."

"Don't be hard-hearted, Father. Think of the poor fellow lying there and not being able to tell any of us what religion he belongs to."

"I'll tell you why I won't go," said the priest. "There was one time when I was a curate in Dublin, I used to be attending one of the hospitals. People would be brought in suffering from accidents and dying, and you wouldn't know what they were, Catholic and Protestant. I got into the way of anointing them all while they were unconcious, feeling it could do them no harm, even if they were Protestants. Well, one day I anointed a poor fellow that they told me was dying. What did he do but recover. It turned out then that he was a Protestant, and, what's more, an Orangeman, and when he heard what was done he gave me all sorts of abuse. He said his mother wouldn't rest easy in her grave when she heard of it, and more talk of the same kind."

"This is quite a different sort of case," said the doctor. "This man's not dying or the least likely to die."

"I'll not go near him," said the priest.

"I'm sorry to hear you say that, Father. The Rev. Mr. Jackson is coming up, and he's prepared to ask the man what religion he is in ancient Greek--ancient Greek, mind you, no less. It wouldn't be a nice thing to have it said about the town that the Protestant minister could talk ancient Greek and that you weren't fit to say a few words in Latin. Come, now, Father Henaghan, for the credit of the Church say you'll do it."

This last argument weighed greatly with the priest. Dr. Whitty saw his advantage and pressed the matter home.

"I'll put you down," he said, "for Spanish and Italian."

"You may put me down if you like, but I tell you he won't know a word I speak to him."

"Try him," said the doctor.

"I'll not be making a public fool of myself to please you," said the priest. "If I do it at all I'll have no one with me in the room at the time, mind that now."

"Not a soul. You shall have him all to yourself. To tell you the truth, I expect everybody will feel the same as you do about that. The Rev. Mr. Jackson didn't seem very keen on showing off his ancient Greek."

Colonel Beresford, when Dr. Whitty called on him, confessed to a slight, a very slight, acquaintance with the Russian language.

"I took it up," he said, "a long time ago when I was stationed in Edinburgh. There was a Russian scare on at the time and everybody thought there was going to be a war. I happened to hear that there were a couple of Russian medical students in the University, and I thought if I picked up a little of the language I might fall in for a staff appointment. I've nearly forgotten it all now, and I didn't make any special study of religious terms at the time, but I'll do the best I can for you. You've got all the other languages you say."

"I think so. I have"--the doctor took a list from his pocket--"French, Miss Lizzie Glynn. She was educated at a first-rate convent, and speaks French fluently. Greek (ancient and modern), the Rev. Mr. Jackson. German and allied tongues, Mrs. Jackson. Italian, Spanish and Portuguese, Father Henaghan. That, with your Russian, makes a tolerably complete list."

"I'd no idea," said the colonel, "that we were such a polyglot in Ballintra. By the way, you haven't got Norwegian."

"No," said the doctor, "I haven't and when you come to think of it, a sailor is more likely to be that, or a Swede, than any thing else. Can you speak it?"

"Not a word."

"Do you happen to have a dictionary, Norwegian or Swedish, in the house?"

"No."

"That's a pity. I'd have tried to work it up a little myself if you had."

"All I have," said the Colonel, "is a volume of Ibsen's plays."

"Give me that," said the Doctor, "and I'll do my best."

"It's only a translation."

"Never mind. I'll pick up something out of it that may be useful. I have two hours before me. Do you mind lending it to me?"

Dr. Whitty went home with a copy of a translation of "Rosmersholm," "Ghosts," and "An Enemy of Society."

At six o'clock the whole party of linguists assembled in the private sitting-room of the master of the workhouse. Dr. Whitty gave them a short address of an encouraging kind, pointing out that, in performing an act of charity they were making the best possible use of the education they had received. He then politely asked Mrs. Jackson if she would like to visit the foreigner first. She did not seem anxious to push herself forward. Her German, she confessed, was weak; and she hoped that if she was reserved until the last he might possibly recognise one of the other languages before her turn came. Everybody else, it turned out, felt very much as Mrs. Jackson did. In the end Dr. Whitty decided the order of precedence by drawing lots. The colonel, accepting loyally the decision of destiny, went first and returned with the news that the sailor showed no signs of being able to understand Russian. Lizzie Glynn went next, and was no more fortunate with her French.

"I'm not sure," she said, "did I speak it right. But, right or wrong, he didn't know a word I said to him."

Mr. Jackson arranged his notes carefully and was conducted by the doctor to the ward. He, too, returned without having made himself intelligible.

"I knew I should be no use," he said. "I expect modern Greek is quite different from the language I know."

Father Henaghan's Latin was a complete failure. He seemed irritated and reported very unfavourably of the intelligence of the patient.

"It's my belief," he said, "that the man's mind's gone. He must have got a crack on the head somehow, as well as breaking his leg, and had the sense knocked out of him. He looks to me like a man who'd understand well enough when you talked to him if he had his right mind."

This view of the sailor's condition made Mrs. Jackson nervous. She said she had no experience of lunatics, and disliked being brought into contact with them. She wanted to back out of her promise to ask the necessary question in German. In the end she consented to go, but only if her husband was allowed to accompany her. She was back again in five minutes, and said definitely that the man knew no German whatever.

"Now," said the colonel, "it's your turn, doctor. Go at him with your Norwegian."

"The fact is," said the doctor, "that, owing to the three plays you lent me being merely translations, I've only been able to get a hold of one Norwegian word. However, as it happens, it is an extremely useful word in this particular case. The Norwegian for a clergyman," he said, triumphantly, "is 'Pastor.' What's more, I've got a hold of the name of one of their clergy. If this man is a Norwegian, and has been in the habit of going to the theatre, I expect he'll know all about Pastor Manders."

"It's clever of you to have fished that out of the book I lent you," said the colonel. "But I don't quite see how it will help you to find out whether our friend with the broken leg is a Protestant or a Roman Catholic."

"It will help if it's worked properly, if it's worked the way I mean to work it, that is to say, if the man is a Norwegian, and I don't see what else he can be."

"He might be a Turk," said Father Henaghan.

"No he couldn't. I tried him with half a glass of whiskey this morn, and he simply lapped it up. If he had been a Turk the smell of it would have turned him sick. We may fairly assume that he is, as I say, a Norwegian, and if he is I'll get at him. I shall want you, Father Henaghan, and you, Mr. Jackson, to come with me."

"I've been twice already," said Mr. Jackson. "Do you really think it necessary for me----"

"I shan't ask you to speak another word of ancient Greek," said the doctor. "You needn't do anything except stand where I put you and look pleasant."

He took the priest and the rector, seizing each by the arm, and swept them with him along the corridor to the ward in which the injured sailor lay. He set them one on each side of the bed, and stood at the foot of it himself. The sailor stared first at the priest and next at the rector. Then he looked the doctor straight in the face and his left eyelid twitched slightly. Dr. Whitty felt almost certain that he winked; but there was clearly no reason why he should wink with any malicious intent, so he put the motion down to some nervous affection.

"Pastor," said the doctor, in a loud, clear tone, pointing to Father Henaghan.

The sailor looked vacantly at the priest.

"Pastor," said the doctor again, indicating Mr. Jackson, with his finger.

The sailor turned his face and looked at Mr. Jackson, but there was no sign of intelligence on his face.

"Take your choice," said the doctor; "you can have either one or the other. We don't want to influence you in the slightest, but you've got to profess a religion of some sort while you're here, and these clergymen represent the only two kinds we have. One or other of them you must choose, otherwise the unfortunate master of this workhouse will get into trouble for not registering you. Hang it all! I don't believe the fool knows a single word I'm saying to him."

Again, the man's eyelid, this time his right, eyelid, twitched.

"Don't do that," said the doctor; "it distracts your attention from what I'm saying. Listen to me now. Pastor Manders!" He pointed to the priest. "Pastor Manders!" He indicated the rector.

Neither Father Henaghan nor Mr. Jackson had ever read "Ghosts," which was fortunate. If they had they might have resented the name which the doctor imposed on them. Apparently, the sailor did not know the play either. "Manders" seemed to mean no more to him than "Pastor" did.

"There's no use our standing here all evening," said Father Henaghan. "You told me to look pleasant, and I have--I haven't looked so pleasant for a long time--but I don't see that any good is likely to come of it."

"Come on," said the doctor. "I've done my best, and I can do no more. I'm inclined to think now that the man must be either a Laplander or an Esquimaux. He'd have understood me if he'd been a Dane, a Swede, a Norwegian, or even a Finn."

"I told you, as soon as ever I set eyes on him," said the priest, "that he was out of his mind. My own belief is, doctor, that if you give him some sort of a soothing draught, and get him back into his right senses, he'll turn out to be an Irishman. It's what he looks like."

Michael Geraghty, who had carted the injured sailor from the shipwreck, called on Dr. Whitty next day at breakfast-time.

"I hear," he said, "that you had half the town up yesterday trying could they get a word out of that fellow that's in the hospital with the broken leg."

"I had. We spoke to him in every language in Europe, and I'm bothered if I know what country he belongs to at all. There wasn't one of us he'd answer."

"Did you think of trying him with the Irish?"

"I did not. Where would be the good? If he could speak Irish he'd be sure to be able to speak English."

"Would you have any objection to my saying a few words to him, doctor?"

"Not the least in the world. If you've nothing particular to do, go up there and tell the master I sent you."

An hour later Michael Geraghty re-appeared at the doctor's door. He was grinning broadly and seemed pleased with himself.

"Well, Michael, did you make him speak?"