Part 11 (1/2)

”Over the hills and far away, Over the hills and beyond the say, Over the hills and a great way off, And the wind it blew--”

when a thudding knock on the door seemed to beat down the shriller sounds and stop the sliding bow. Dan went to see who it was, and found standing on the threshold a tall, lean old man in a long, ragged coat, with a thick, knotted blackthorn in his hand. A few hard-frozen granules pattered in at the opened door, which admitted a glimpse of the moon, tarnished by a thin drift of scudding cloud.

”G.o.d save all here,” said the old man, who was a stranger.

”Good-evenin' to you kindly, sir,” responded old Felix from his fireside corner; ”and wudn't you be steppin' widin?”

”I'm on'y axin' me way to the place below there--Ballybrosna beyond Duffclane,” said the old man; ”it's the road I must be steppin', for I'm more than a thrifle late.”

But he came slowly forward into the room as if lured by the fire, at which he looked hungrily. He stooped and limped very much, and when he took off his black caubeen, the sharp gleam of his white hair seemed to comment coldly on those infirmities.

”I'm widin a mile or so of it, or maybe less, by now, I should suppose,”

he said.

”Faix, then, it's the long mile,” said the fiddler. ”Put half a dozen to it, and you'll be nearer; and bedad it's aisier work doin' that in your head than on your feet. Be the same token I must be leggin' it, or they'll consait I'm lost at our place.” And he stepped out darkly into the veiled moonlight.

”Wirrasthrew and weary on it,” the old man said to himself; and then to the others, ”Is it that far as he says?”

”Ay is it, every inch,” said old O'Beirne. ”And too long a thramp for you altogether, sir, if I might make so free.”

”For the matther of that,” said the ragged old man, proudly, ”I've walked the double of it, and more, times and agin, widout so much as considherin'. But your road's a bit heavy to-night, wid the snow--and could.”

”That's the worst of the roads,” said the little old woman, peering suddenly out of her corner; ”the longer you walk them, the longer they'll grow on you, till you begin to think there's no ind to them. And after that, the best conthrivance is to keep off of them clivir and clane, the way I do. Then they're no len'th at all.”

”Ah, ma'am, but 'twouldn't be very handy if the young folk took to thryin' that plan,” the old man said. ”_We_'re bound to keep steppin'

out.”

A short silence followed this remark, because the hearers felt uncertain whether he meant the p.r.o.noun for a jest. To evade the difficulty, old O'Beirne bade Dan fetch a mug for a drop of poteen, and meanwhile said to the stranger:

”Sit you down, sir, and take a taste of the fire. Where might you be thravellin' from this day?”

”I was livin' over at Innislone,” said the old man, sitting down on a creepy stool.

”Musha, then, you didn't ever come that far all on ind--sure it's miles untould.”

”'Twas the day afore yisterday I quit. Last night I slep' at Sallinbeg, and this mornin' I met a man who loaned me a grand lift in his cart.”

”I used to know a man lived at Innislone,” said old O'Beirne, ”be the name of Brian English. He come by here of an odd while after the stuff.”

”Ay, bedad, and a very dacint ould crathur he was. Meself's one of the Dermodys--young Christie they call me--but ould Christie that was me poor father's dead this while back. Thank you kindly, lad,” the old man said to Dan, who now handed him a little delft mug half full of whisky.

”Why, you're nigh as long a fellow as meself. Are you good at the wrestlin'?”

”Och, I'm no great things whatever,” Dan replied with becoming modesty.

”There's not many heavy weights in the parish 'ud care to stand up to me,” said this young Christie, holding the mug in a gaunt tremulous hand. ”Faix, it's noways forrard they've been about it since the time I come near breakin' Rick Tighe's neck. I've noticed that. Begorrah, now, ivery sowl thought I had him ma.s.sacred,” he said, with a transient gleam of genuine complacency. ”You might have heard tell of it, belike?”

”It 'ud ha' happint before my recollections, sir, maybe,” said Dan, looking at him perplexedly, ”if 'twas apt to ha' been a longish while ago.”

”'Twasn't long to say,” said the old man. He drank the spirits lingeringly, in slow sips, and seemed to sit up straighter as he did so.

Then he set down the empty mug on the table, and said, ”_Boys' wages_.”

But he had scarcely uttered the words when he perceived that he had thought aloud irrelevantly, and made haste to cover the slip. ”I'd better be gettin' on wid meself,” he said, rising, ”Thank you, kindly.