Ashamed I was, Pierre, that Father Corraine
should spake to me like that, for I'd only a twig twisted at me hips to
kape me trousies up, an' I thought 'twas that he had in his eye! 'Buckle
to,' says I, 'Father Corraine? Buckle to, yer riv'rince?'--feelin' I was
at the twigs the while. 'Ay, little Tim Macavoy,' he says, says he,
'you've bin 'atin' the husks av idleness long enough; when are you goin'
to buckle to? You had a kingdom and ye guv it up,' says he; 'take a
field, get a plough, and buckle to,' says he, 'an' turn back no more'--
like that, says Father Corraine; and I thinkin' all the time 'twas the
want o' me belt he was drivin' at."
Pierre looked at him a moment idly, then said: "Such a tom-fool! And
where's that grand leather belt of yours, eh, my monarch?"
A laugh shook through Macavoy's beard. "For the weddin' it wint: buckled
the two up wid it for better or worse--an' purty they looked, they did,
standin' there in me cinch, an' one hole left--aw yis, Pierre."
"And what do you give to Ida?" Pierre asked, with a little emphasis of
the branding-iron.
Macavoy got to his feet. "Ida! Ida!" said he. "Is that saddle for
Ida? Is it her and Hilton that's to ate aff one dish togither? That
rose o' the valley, that bird wid a song in her face and none an her
tongue. That daisy dot av a thing, steppin' through the world like a
sprig o' glory. Aw, Pierre, thim two!--an' I've divil a scrap to give,
good or bad.
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