“Be no manner of manes,” says the King, anxious. “What’d we do without him? We’ll be at Croaghmah in a few minutes, then he needn’t bother ye.”
“Why don’t ye dhrive on?” says Darby, lookin’ up surly at the head. “Why don’t ye start?”
“We’re goin’ these last three minutes,” smiled Shaun; “we’re comin’ up to Kilmartin churchyard now.”
“Have you passed Tom Grogan’s public-house?” axed the King, starting up, anxious.
“I have, but I can turn back agin,” says the face, lighting up, intherested.
“They keep the best whusky there in this part of Ireland,” says the King. “Would ye mind steppin’ in an’ bringing us out a sup, Darby agra?”
Misthress Tom Grogan was a tall, irritated woman, with sharp corners all over her, an’ a timper that was like an east wind. She was standing at her own door, argyin’ with Garge McGibney an’ Wullum Broderick, an’ daling them out harrud names, whilst her husband, Tom, a mild little man, stood within laning on the bar, smoking saydately. Garge an’ Wullum were argying back at Misthress Grogan, tellin’ her what a foine-looking, rayspectable woman she was, an’
