Part 20 (1/2)

'Name o' goodness, what's the row?' said the farmer.

'Who's there?' demanded Shanno, in the pa.s.sage.

The answer did not reach the hall, but Shanno came rus.h.i.+ng in, 'It's them Irishers again, master, upon my deet, they do be here for ever.'

'Give me my stick!' exclaimed Mr Prothero, 'if I don't give them a lesson my name isn't David.'

He seized a stick and went into the pa.s.sage, followed by his wife, murmuring, 'Oh, David, bach,' and by Netta as far as the door, from which she peeped down the pa.s.sage.

'Who's there?' roared the farmer in a voice of thunder.

'May it please yer honour, I'm cowld and hungry. Long life to yer honour and her leddys.h.i.+p, if yell only give the loan o' yer barn, or maybe yer loft, or--'

'I'll show you the way to my barn, you idle, good-for-nothing scamp,'

cried Mr Prothero, opening the door, and levelling a blow with his stick into the moonlight, that must infallibly have knocked down any one less agile than the man for whom it was intended. As it was, the unwelcome visitor jumped aside, whilst the portly farmer tripped himself up by his own impetuosity, and fell upon the threshold. Mrs Prothero and Netta screamed, and Shanno took hold of the beggar's arm, to prevent his escape. But the beggar had pulled Mr Prothero up, and was beginning to sympathise with him in broad brogue, when that valiant anti-Irishman got hold of his stick again, and began to belabour the unoffending party's back most manfully.

'Enough's as good as a faist, yer honour,' cried the stranger, skipping from side to side, and evading the blows very skilfully; 'pon my sowl, yer honour 'ud do for a fair or a wake. 'Tis madam as has the heart an'

the conscience for the poor Irish, an' miss, too, asth.o.r.e!'

The impudent fellow ran round to where Netta stood, who, in terror, went into the house, followed by the man, and after him, the rest in full hue and cry.

'Tin thousand pardons, miss,' said the man, taking off his hat and confronting Netta.

'Owen! Owen!' screamed Netta. 'For shame upon you, you naughty boy,' and therewith Netta and the unexpected guest were hugging one another, most lovingly.

''Tis the mother will give the poor Irisher a lodgin' and a drop o' the cratur,' cried that mother's well-beloved eldest born almost catching her up in his arms, and smothering her with kisses. 'And the masther isn't so hard-hearted as he looks,' he added, shaking the astonished farmer by the hand.

'Owen! oughtn't you to be ashamed of yourself?' cried the farmer, laughing aloud, and rubbing his right leg.

'Not kilt intirely, yer honour! didn't I take you all in, that's all!'

'Where did you come from? How did you come? When did you leave your s.h.i.+p?' were the questions reiterated on all sides of the welcome guest.

'I'll tell you all that to-morrow. At present I am dying of cowld and hunger, and haven't broke me fast since morning. Let me show you how the locker stands.'

Owen emptied his pockets, and from a corner of one of them turned out a solitary halfpenny.

'I shouldn't have had that if old Nanny Cwmgwyn hadn't given it to me just now. But I'll tell you my story to-morrow in character.'

'Not an improved one anyhow,' said Mr Prothero with a gathering frown.

'Don't lecture to-night, Datta, bach; you shall have an hour on purpose to-morrow, when I promise to listen to edification. 'Pon my word it is pleasant to be at home again. How I long to sleep in my comfortable bed once more.'

Poor Mrs Prothero's countenance fell, and Netta looked malicious.

'Not likely to sleep there to-night, boy,' said the farmer; 'mother has got visitors.'

'Visitors!' exclaimed Owen, 'and gone to bed already! what sleepy people.'

'Some of your friends of the cowld and hungry sort,' said the farmer.