Part 28 (1/2)

”It bothers the head off of me,” said Molly Tooney to Mike, as she sat eating her supper in the Cobhurst kitchen, ”to try to foind out what thim two upstairs is loike, anyway, 'specially her. I've been here nigh onto two weeks, now, and I don't know her no betther than when I fust come.

For the life of me I can't make out whether she's a gal woman or a woman gal. Sometimes she's one and sometimes t'other. And then there's he. Why didn't he marry and settle before he took a house to himself? And in the two Sundays I've been here, nather of thim's been to church. If they knowed what was becomin' to thim, they'd behave like Christians, if they are heretics.”

Mike sat at a little table in the corner of the kitchen with his back to Molly, eating his supper. He had enough of the Southern negro in him to make him dislike to eat with white people or to turn his face toward anybody while partaking of his meals. But he also had enough of a son of Erin in him to make him willing to talk whenever he had a chance. Turning his head a little, he asked, ”Now look a here, Molly; if a man's a heretic, how can he be a Christian?”

”There's two kinds of heretics,” said Molly, filling her great tea-cup for the fourth time, and holding the teapot so that the last drop of the strong decoction should trickle into the cup; ”Christian heretics and haythen heretics. You're one of the last koind yoursilf, Mike, for you never go nigh a church, except to whitewash the walls of it. And you'll never git no benefit to your own sowl, from Phoebe's boardin' the minister, nather. Take my word for that, Mike.”

Mike allowed himself a sort of froggy laugh. ”There's n.o.body gets no good out of that, but him,” said he; ”but you've got it crooked about their not goin' to church. They did go reg'lar at fust, but the gig's at the wheelwright's gettin' new shaf's.”

”Gig, indeed!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Molly. ”No kirridge, but an auld gig! There's not much quality about thim two. I wouldn't be here working for the likes o' thim, if it was not for me wish to oblige Miss Panney, poor old woman as she's gittin' to be.”

Mike shrewdly believed that it was due to Miss Panney's knowledge of some of Molly's misdeeds, and not to any desire to please the old lady, that the commands of the latter were law to the Irishwoman, but he would not say so.

”Kerridge or no kerridge,” said he, ”they're good 'nough quality for me, and I reckon I knows what quality is. They hain't got much money, that's sure, but there's lots of quality that ain't got money; and he's got sense, and that's better than money. When he fust come here, I jes' goes to him, and ses I, 'How's you goin' to run this farm, sir,--ramshackle or reg'lar?' He looked at me kinder bothered, and then I 'splained. 'Well,'

said he, 'reg'lar will cost more money than I've got, and I reckon we'll have to run it ramshackle.' That's what we did, and we're gittin' along fust rate. He works and I work, and what we ain't got no time to do, we let stand jes' thar till we git time to 'tend to it. That's ramshackle.

We don't spend no time on fancy fixin's, and not much money on nuthin'.”

”That's jes' what I've been thinkin' mesilf,” said Molly. ”I don't see no signs of money bein' spint on this place nather for one thing or anuther.”

”You don't always have to spend money to get c.r.a.ps,” said Mike; ”look at our corn and pertaters. They is fust rate, and when we sends our c.r.a.ps to market, there won't be much to take for 'spenses out of what we git.”

”c.r.a.ps!” said Molly, with a sneer. ”If you hauls your weeds to market, it'll take more wagons than you can hire in this country, and thim's the only c.r.a.ps my oi has lit on yit.”

This made Mike angry. He was, in general, a good-natured man, but he had a high opinion of himself as a farm manager, and on this point his feelings were very sensitive. As was usual with him when he lost his temper, he got up without a word and went out.

”Bedad!” said Molly, looking about her, ”I wouldn't have sid that to him if I'd seed there wasn't no kindlin' sphlit.”

As Mike walked toward his own house, he was surprised to see, entering a little-used gateway near the barn, a horse and carriage. It was now so dark he could not see who occupied it, and he stood wondering why it should enter that gateway, instead of coming by the main entrance. As he stood there, the equipage came slowly on, and presently stopped in front of his little house. By the time he reached it, Phoebe, his wife, had alighted, and was waiting for him.

”Reckon you is surprised to see me,” said she, and then turning to the negro man who drove the shabby hired vehicle, she told him that he might go over to the barn and tie his horse, for she would not be ready to go back for some time. She then entered the house with Mike, and, a candle having been lighted, she explained her unexpected appearance. She had met Miss Dora Bannister, and that young lady had engaged her to go to Cobhurst and take a note to Miss Miriam.

”She tole me,” said Phoebe, ”that she had wrote two times already to Miss Miriam, and then, havin' suspected somethin', had gone to the pos'-office and found they was still dar. Don't your boss ever sen' to the pos'-office, Mike?”

”He went hisself every now an' then, till the gig was broke,” said Mike, ”but I don't believe he ever got nuthin', and I reckon they thought it was no use botherin' about sendin' me, special, in the wagon.”

”Well, they're uncommon queer folks,” said Phoebe. ”I reckon they've got n.o.body to write to, or git letters from. Anyway, Miss Dora wanted her letter to git here, and so she says to me that if I'd take it, she'd pay the hire of a hack, and so, as I wanted to see you anyway, Mike, I 'greed quick enough.”

Before delivering the letter with which she had been entrusted, Phoebe proceeded to attend to some personal business, which was to ask her husband to lend her five dollars.

”Bless my soul,” said Mike, ”I ain't got no five dollars. I ain't asked for no wages yit, and don't expect to, till the c.r.a.ps is sold.”

”I can't wait for that!” exclaimed Phoebe; ”I's got to have money to carry on the house.”

”Whar's the money the preacher pays you?” asked her husband.

”Dat's a comin',” said Phoebe, ”dat's a comin' all right. Thar's to be a special c'lection next Sunday mornin', and the money's goin' to pay the minister's board. I'm to git every cent what's owin' to me, and I reckon it'll take it all.”

”He ain't paid you nuthin' yit, thin?”