Part 7 (1/2)
”Blood alive, masther, but that's great spakin'--begar, a judge couldn't come up to you; but in throth, sir, I'd be long sarry to throuble you; only he's away fifteen year, and I wouldn't thrust it to another; and the corplar that commands the ridgment would regard your handwrite and your inditin'.”
”Don't, ma'am, plade the smallest taste of apology.”
”Eagh?”
”I'm happy that I can sarve you, ma'am.”
”Musha, long life to you, masther, for that same, any how--but it's yourself that's deep in the larnin' and the langridges; the Lord incrase yer knowledge--sure, an' we all want his blessin', you know.”
”Home, is id? Start, boys, off--chase him, lie into him--asy, curse yez, take time gettin' out: that's it--keep to him--don't wait for me; take care, you little spalpeens, or you'll brake your bones, so you will: blow the dust of this road, I can't see my way in.”
THE RETURN.
”Well, boys, you've been at it--here's swelled faces and b.l.o.o.d.y noses.
What blackened your eye, Callaghan? You're a purty prime ministher, ye boxing blackguard, you: I left you to keep pace among these factions, and you've kicked up a purty dust. What blackened your eye--eh?--”
”I'll tell you, sir, whin I come in, if you plase.”
”Ho, you vagabones, this is the ould work of the faction between the Bradys and the Callaghans--bastin' one another; but, by my sowl, I'll baste you all through other. You don't want to go out, Callaghan. You had fine work here since; there's a dead silence now; but I'll pay you presently. Here, Duggan, go out wid Callaghan, and see that you bring him back in less than no time. It's not enough for your fathers and brothers to be at it, who have a right to fight, but you must battle betune you--have your field days itself!”
(Duggan returns)--”Hoo--hoo--sir, my nose. Oh, murdher sheery, my nose is broked!”
”Blow your nose, you spalpeen you--Where's Callaghan?”
”Oh, sir, bad luck to him every day he rises out of his bed; he got a stone in his fist, too, that he hot me a pelt on the nose wid, and then made off home.”
”Home is id? Start, boys, off--chase him, lie into him--azy, curse yez, take time gettin out; that's it--keep to him--don't wait for me; take care you little salpeens or you'll brake your bones, so you will: blow the dust of this road, I can't see my way in it.”
”Oh! murdher, Jem, agra, my knee's out' o' joint.”
”My elbow's smashed, Paddy. Bad luck to him--the devil fly away wid him--oh! ha I ha!--oh! ha! ha! murdher--hard fortune to me, but little Mickey Geery fell, an' thripped the masther, an' himself's, disabled now--his black breeches split too--look at him feelin' them--oh! oh! ha!
ha!--by tare-an'-onty, Callaghan will be murdhered, if they cotch him.”
This was a specimen of scholastic civilization which Ireland only could furnish; nothing, indeed, could be more perfectly ludicrous than such a chase; and such scenes were by no means uncommon in hedge-schools, for, wherever severe punishment was dreaded--and, in truth, most of the hedge masters were unfeeling tyrants--the boy, if sufficiently grown to make a good race, usually broke away, and fled home at the top of his speed.
The pack then were usually led on by the master, who mostly headed them himself, all in full cry, exhibiting such a scene as should be witnessed in order to be enjoyed. The neighbors, men, women, and children, ran out to be spectators; the laborers suspended their work to enjoy it, a.s.sembling on such eminences as commanded a full view of the pursuit.
”Bravo, boys--success, masther; lie into him--where's your huntin' horn, Mr. Kavanagh?--he'll bate yez if ye don't take the wind of him.
Well done, Callaghan, keep up yer heart, yer sowl, and you'll do it asy--you're gaining' on them, _ma bouchal_--the masther's down, you gallows clip, an' there's none but the scholars afther ye--he's safe.”
”Not he; I'll hould a naggin, the poor scholar has him; don't you see, he's close at his heels?”
”_Done_, by my song--they'll never come up wid him; listen to their leather crackers and cord-a-roys, as their knees bang agin one another.
Hark forrit, boy's; hark forrit! huz-zaw, you thieves, huzzaw!”
”Your beagles is well winded, Mr. Kava-nagh, and gives good tongue.”
”Well, masther, you had your chase for nothin', I see.”
”Mr. Kavanagh,” another would observe, ”I didn't think you war so stiff in the hams, as to let the gorsoon bate you that way--your wind's failin', sir.”