The fiddle struck a note, the bare, nimble feet raised. “Rocky Roads to Dublin” was the tune.
Deedle, deedle, dee, rocky roads to Dubalin.”
The twinkling feet fell together. Smiles and laughter and jostling and jollity broke like a summer storm through the room. And singing and pattherin’ and jiggering, rose and swirled to the mad music, till suddenly—“knock, knock, knock!”—the blows of a whip-handle fell upon the door and every leg stopped stiff.
“Murther in Irish,” whispered little Mickey Mulligan, “’tis Father Scanlan himself that’s in it!”
Ochone mavrone! what a change from merry-making and happiness to fright and scandalation was there! The Master of the Fairies, sure that Father Scanlan had the scent of him, tried to climb up on to the settle-bed, but was too wake from fear, so Mrs. Mulligan histed him and piled three childher on top of the King to hide him just as Father Scanlan pushed open the door.
The priest stood outside, houlding his horse with one hand and pintin’ his whip with the other.
