VANISHED.
We were all astir shortly after daylight on Monday morning. Dick’s foot
was well enough for his walk to Knockcalltecrore, and Andy came with me
to Knocknacar, as had been arranged, for I wanted his help in engaging
labourers and beginning the work. We got to the shebeen about nine
o’clock, and Andy having put up the mare went out to get labourers. As
I was morally certain that at that hour in the morning there would be
no chance of seeing my unknown on the hill-top, I went at once to the
bog, taking my map with me and studying the ground where we were to
commence operations.
Andy joined me in about half-an-hour with five men—all he had been able
to get in the time. They were fine strapping young fellows and seemed
interested in the work, so I thought the contingent would be strong
enough. By this time I had the ground marked out according to the plan,
and so without more ado we commenced work.
We had attacked the hill some two hundred feet lower down than the
bog, where the land suddenly rose steeply from a wide sloping extent
of wilderness of invincible barrenness. It was over this spot that
Sutherland hoped ultimately to send the waters of the bog. We began at
the foot and made a trench some four feet wide at the bottom, and with
sloping walls, so that when we got in so far the drain would be twenty
feet deep, the external aperture would measure about twice as much.
The soil was heavy and full of moderate-sized boulders, but was not
unworkable, and amongst us we came to the conclusion that a week of
solid work would, bar accidents and our coming across unforeseen
difficulties, at any rate break the back of the job. The men worked
in sections—one marking out the trench by cutting the surface to some
foot-and-a-half deep, and the others following in succession. Andy
sat on a stone hard by, filled his pipe, and endeavoured in his own
cheery way to relieve the monotony of the labour of the others. After
about an hour he grew tired and went away—perhaps it was that he became
interested in a country car, loaded with persons, that came down the
road and stopped a few minutes at the sheebeen on its way to join the
main road to Carnaclif.
Things went steadily on for some time. The men worked well, and I
possessed my soul in such patience as I could, and studied the map and
the ground most carefully. When dinner-time came the men went off each
to his own home, and as soon as the place was free from them I hurried
to the top of the mountain. The prospect was the same as yesterday.
There was the same stretch of wild moor and rugged coast, of clustering
islands and foam-girt rocks—of blue sky laden with such masses of
luminous clouds as are only found in Ireland. But all was to me dreary
and desolate, for the place was empty and _she_ was not there. I
sat down to wait with what patience I could. It was dreary work at
best; but at any rate there was hope—and its more immediate kinsman,
expectation—and I waited. Somehow the view seemed to tranquillize me in
some degree. It may have been that there was some unconscious working
of the mind which told me in some imperfect way that in a region quite
within my range of vision, nothing could long remain hidden or unknown.
Perhaps it was the stilly silence of the place. There was hardly a
sound—the country people were all within doors at dinner, and even the
sounds of their toil were lacking. From the west came a very faint
breeze, just enough to bring the far-off, eternal roar of the surf.
There was scarcely a sign of life. The cattle far below were sheltering
under trees, or in the shadows of hedges, or standing still knee-deep
in the pools of the shallow streams. The only moving thing which I
could see, was the car which had left so long before, and was now far
off, and was each moment becoming smaller and smaller as it went into
the distance.
So I sat for quite an hour with my heart half sick with longing, but
she never came. Then I thought I heard a step coming up the path
at the far side. My heart beat strangely. I sat silent, and did not
pretend to hear. She was walking more slowly than usual, and with a
firmer tread. She was coming. I heard the steps on the plateau, and a
voice came:—
“Och! an’ isn’t it a purty view, yer ’an’r?” I leaped to my feet with a
feeling that was positively murderous. The revulsion was too great, and
I broke into a burst of semi-hysterical laughter. There stood Andy—with
ragged red head and sun-scorched face—in his garb of eternal patches,
bleached and discoloured by sun and rain into a veritable coat of many
colours—gazing at the view with a rapt expression, and yet with one
eye half-closed in a fixed but unmistakable wink, as though taking the
whole majesty of nature into his confidence.
When he heard my burst of laughter he turned to me quizzically:—
“Musha! but it’s the merry gentleman yer ’an’r is this day. Shure the
view here is the laughablest thing I ever see!” and he affected to
laugh, but in such a soulless, unspontaneous way that it became a real
burlesque. I waited for him to go on. I was naturally very vexed, but
I was afraid to say anything lest I might cause him to interfere in
_this_ affair—the last thing on earth that I wished for.
He did go on; no one ever found Andy abashed or ill at ease:—
“Begor! but yer ’an’r lepped like a deer when ye heerd me shpake. Did
ye think I was goin’ to shoot ye? Faix! an’ I thought that ye wor
about to jump from aff iv the mountain into the say, like a shtag.”
“Why, what do you know about stags, Andy? There are none in this part
of the country, are there?” I thought I would drag a new subject across
his path. The ruse of the red herring drawn across the scent succeeded!
“Phwhat do I know iv shtags? Faix, I know this, that there does be
plinty in me Lard’s demesne beyant at Wistport. Sure wan iv thim got
out last autumn an’ nigh ruined me garden. He kem in at night an’ ate
up all me cabbages an’ all the vigitables I’d got. I frightened him
away a lot iv times, but he kem back all the same. At last I could
shtand him no longer, and I wint meself an’ complained to the Lard.
He tould me he was very sorry fur the damage he done, ‘an’,’ sez he,
‘Andy, I think he’s a bankrup,’ sez he, ‘an’ we must take his body.’
‘How is that, Me Lard?’ sez I. Sez he, ‘I give him to ye, Andy. Do
what ye like wid him!’ An’ wid that I wint home an’ I med a thrap iv
a clothes line wid a loop in it, an’ I put it betune two threes; and
shure enough in the night I got him.”
“And what did you do with him, Andy?” said I.
“Faith, surr, I shkinned him and ate him!” He said this just in the
same tone in which he would speak of the most ordinary occurrence,
leaving the impression on one’s mind that the skinning and eating were
matters done at the moment and quite offhand.
I fondly hoped that Andy’s mind was now in quite another state from
his usual mental condition; but I hardly knew the man yet. He had
the true humorist’s persistence, and before I was ready with another
intellectual herring he was off on the original track.
“I thrust I didn’t dishturb yer ’an’r. I know some gintlemin likes to
luk at views and say nothin’. I’m tould that a young gintleman like yer
’an’r might be up on top iv a mountain like this, an’ he’d luk at the
view so hard day afther day that he wouldn’t even shpake to a purty
girrul—if there was wan forninst him all the time!”
“Then they lied to you, Andy!” I said this quite decisively.
“Faix, yer ’an’r, an’ it’s glad I am to hear that same, for I wouldn’t
like to think that a young gintleman was afraid of a girrul, however
purty she might be.”
“But, tell me, Andy,” I said, “what idiot could have started such an
idea? And even if it was told to you, how could you be such a fool as
to believe it?”
“Me belave it! Surr, I did’t belave a wurrd iv it—not until I met yer
’an’r.” His face was quite grave, and I was not sorry to find him in a
sober mood, for I wanted to have a serious chat with him. It struck me
that he, having relatives at Knocknacar, might be able to give me some
information about my unknown.
“Until you met me, Andy! Surely I never gave you any ground for holding
such a ridiculous idea?”
“Begor, yer ’an’r, but ye did. But p’raps I had betther not say any
more—yer ’an’r mightn’t like it.”
This both surprised and nettled me, and I was determined now to have it
out, so I said, “You quite surprise me, Andy. What have I ever done? Do
not be afraid! Out with it,” for he kept looking at me in a timorous
kind of way.
“Well, then, yer ’an’r, about poor Miss Norah?”
This was a surprise, but I wanted to know more.
“Well, Andy, what about her?”
“Shure, an’ didn’t you refuse to shpake iv her intirely an’ sot on me
fur only mintionin’ her—an’ she wan iv the purtiest girruls in the
place.”
“My dear Andy,” said I, “I thought I had explained to you, last night,
all about that. I don’t suppose you quite understand; but it might do a
girl in her position harm to be spoken about with a—a man like me.”
“Wid a man like you—an’ for why? Isn’t she as good a girrul as iver
broke bread?”
“Oh, it’s not that, Andy; people might think harm.”
“Think harrum!—phwhat harrum—an’ who’d think it?”
“Oh, you don’t understand—a man in your position can hardly know.”
“But, yer ’an’r, I don’t git comprehindin’! What harrum could there
be, an’ who’d think it? The people here is all somethin’ iv me own
position—workin’ people—an’ whin they knows a girrul is a good, dacent
girrul, why should they think harrum because a nice young gintleman
goes out iv his way to shpake to her?— Doesn’t he shpake to the
quality like himself, an’ no wan thinks any harrum iv ayther iv them?”
Andy’s simple, honest argument made me feel ashamed of the finer
sophistries belonging to the more artificial existence of those of my
own station.
“Sure, yer ’an’r, there isn’t a bhoy in Connaught that wouldn’t like
to be shpoke of wid Miss Norah. She’s that good, that even the nuns in
Galway, where she was at school, loves her and thrates her like wan iv
themselves, for all she’s a Protestan’.”
“My dear Andy,” said I, “don’t you think you’re a little hard on me?
You’re putting me in the dock, and trying me for a series of offences
that I never even thought of committing with regard to her or any one
else. Miss Norah may be an angel in petticoats, and I’m quite prepared
to take it for granted that she is so—your word on the subject is quite
enough for me. But just please to remember that I never set eyes on her
in my life. The only time I was ever in her presence was when you were
by yourself, and it was so dark that I could not see her, to help her
when she fainted. Why, in the name of common sense, you should keep
holding her up to me, I do not understand.”
“But yer ’an’r said that it might do her harrum even to mintion her wid
you.”
“Oh, well, Andy, I give it up—it’s no use trying to explain. Either you
_won’t_ understand, or I am unable to express myself properly.”
“Surr, there can be only one harrum to a girrul from a gintleman,” he
laid his hand on my arm, and said this impressively—whatever else he
may have ever said in jest, he was in grim earnest now—“an’ that’s whin
he’s a villain. Ye wouldn’t do the black thrick, and desave a girrul
that thrusted ye?”
“No, Andy, no! God forbid! I would rather go to the highest rock on
some island there beyond, where the surf is loudest, and throw myself
into the sea, than do such a thing. No! Andy, there are lots of men
that hold such matters lightly, but I don’t think I’m one of them.
Whatever sins I have, or may ever have upon my soul, I hope such a one
as _that_ will never be there.”
All the comment Andy made was, “I thought so!” Then the habitual
quizzical look stole over his face again, and he said:—
“There does be some that does fear Braches iv Promise. Mind ye, a man
has to be mighty careful on the subject, for some weemin is that ’cute,
there’s no bein’ up to them.”
Andy’s sudden change to this new theme was a little embarrassing, since
the idea leading to it—or rather preceding it—had been one purely
personal to myself; but he was off, and I thought it better that he
should go on.
“Indeed!” said I.
“Yes, surr. Oh, my! but they’re ’cute. The first thing that a girrul
does when a man looks twice at her, is t’ ask him to write her a
letther, an’ thin she has him—tight.”
“How so, Andy?”
“Well, ye see, surr, when you’re writin’ a letther to a girrul, ye
can’t begin widout a ‘My dear’ or a ‘My darlin’’—an’ thin she has the
grip iv the law onto ye! An’ ye do be badgered be the councillors,
an’ ye do be frowned at be the judge, an’ ye do be laughed at be the
people, an’ ye do have to pay yer money—an’ there ye are!”
“I say, Andy,” said I, “I think you must have been in trouble yourself
in that way—you seem to have it all off pat!”
“Oh, throth, not me, yer ’an’r. Glory be to God! but I niver was a
defindant in me life—an’ more betoken, I don’t want to be—but I was
wance a witness in a case iv the kind.”
“And what did you witness?”
“Faix, I was called to prove that I seen the gintleman’s arrum around
the girrul’s waist. The councillors made a deal out iv that—just as if
it warn’t only manners to hould up a girrul on a car!”
“What was the case, Andy? Tell me all about it.”
I did not mind his waiting, as it gave me an excuse for staying on the
top of the hill. I knew I could easily get rid of him when she came—if
she came—by sending him on a message.
“Well, this was a young woman what had an action agin Shquire Murphy
iv Ballynashoughlin himself—a woman as was no more nor a mere simple
governess!”
It would be impossible to convey the depth of social unimportance
conveyed by his tone and manner; and coming from a man of “shreds and
patches,” it was more than comic. Andy had his good suit of frieze
and homespun; but whilst he was on mountain duty, he spared these and
appeared almost in the guise of a scarecrow.
“Well! what happened?”
“Faix, whin she tould her shtory the shquire’s councillor luked up at
the jury, an’ he whispered a wurrd to the shquire and his ’an’r wrote
out a shlip iv paper an’ handed it to him, an’ the councillor ups an’
says he: ‘Me Lard and Gintlemin iv the Jury, me client is prepared to
have the honour iv the lady’s hand if she will so, for let bygones be
bygones.’ An’ sure enough they was married on the Sunday next four
weeks; an’ there she is now dhrivin’ him about the counthry in her
pony-shay, an’ all the quality comin’ to tay in the garden, an’ she as
affable as iver to all the farmers round. Aye, an’ be the hokey, the
shquire himself sez that it was a good day for him whin he sot eyes on
her first, an’ that he don’t know why he was such a dam fool as iver to
thry to say ‘no’ to her, or to wish it.”
“Quite a tale with a moral, Andy! Bravo! Mrs. Murphy.”
“A morial is it? Now may I make bould to ask yer ’an’r what morial ye
take out iv it?”
“The moral, Andy, that I see is, When you see the right woman go for
her for all you’re worth, and thank God for giving you the chance.”
Andy jumped up and gave me a great slap on the back.
“Hurro! more power to yer elbow! but it’s a bhoy afther me own h’arrt
y’ are. I big yer pardon, surr, for the liberty; but it’s mighty glad I
am.”
“Granted, Andy; I like a man to be hearty, and you certainly are. But
why are you so glad about me?”
“Because I like yer ’an’r. Shure in all me life I niver see so much
iv a young gintleman as I’ve done iv yer ’an’r. Surr, I’m an ould man
compared wid ye—I’m the beginnin’ iv wan, at any rate, an’ I’d like
to give ye a wurrd iv advice—git marrid while ye can! I tell ye this,
surr, it’s not whin the hair is beginnin’ to git thin on to the top
iv yer head that a nice young girrul ’ill love ye for yerself. It’s
the people that goes all their lives makin’ money and lukin’ after
all kinds iv things that’s iv no kind iv use to thim, that makes the
mishtake. Suppose ye do git marrid when ye’re ould and bald, an’ yer
legs is shaky, an’ ye want to be let sit close to the fire in the
warrum corner, an’ ye’ve lashins iv money that ye don’t know what to do
wid! Do you think that it’s thin that yer wives does be dhramin’ iv ye
all the time and worshippin’ the ground ye thrid? Not a bit iv it! They
do be wantin’—aye and thryin’ too—to help God away wid ye!”
“Andy,” said I, “you preach, on a practical text, a sermon that any
and every young man ought to hear!” I thought I saw an opening here for
gaining some information and jumped in.
“By Jove! you set me off wishing to marry! Tell me, is there any pretty
girl in this neighbourhood that would suit a young man like me?”
“Oho! begor, there’s girruls enough to shute any man.”
“Aye, Andy—but pretty girls!”
“Well surr, that depinds. Now what might be yer ’anr’s idea iv a purty
girrul?”
“My dear Andy, there are so many different kinds of prettiness that it
is hard to say.”
“Faix, an’ I’ll tell ye if there’s a girrul to shute in the counthry,
for bedad I think I’ve seen thim all. But you must let me know what
would shute ye best?”
“How can I well tell that, Andy, when I don’t know myself? Show me the
girl, and I’ll very soon tell you.”
“Unless I was to ax yer ’an’r questions!” this was said very slily.
“Go on, Andy! there is nothing like the Socratic method.”
“Very well thin! I’ll ax two kinds iv things, an’ yer ’an’r will tell
me which ye’d like the best!”
“All right, go on.”
“Long or short?”
“Tall; not short, certainly.”
“Fat or lane?”
“Fie! fie! Andy, for shame; you talk as if they were cattle or pigs.”
“Begor, there’s only wan kind iv fat an’ lane that I knows of; but av
ye like I’ll call it thick or thin; which is it?”
“Not too fat, but certainly not skinny.” Andy held up his hands in mock
horror:—
“Yer ’an’r shpakes as if ye was talkin’ iv powlthry.”
“I mean Andy,” said I with a certain sense of shame, “she is not to be
either too fat or too lean, as you put it.”
“Ye mane ‘shtreaky’!”
“Streaky!” said I, “what do you mean?” He answered promptly:—
“Shtreaky,—thick an’ thin—like belly bacon.” I said nothing. I felt
certain it would be useless and out of place. He went on:—
“Nixt, fair or dark?”
“Dark, by all means.”
“Dark be it, surr. What kind iv eyes might she have?”
“Ah! eyes like darkness on the bosom of the azure deep!”
“Musha! but that’s a quare kind iv eye fur a girrul to have intirely!
Is she to be all dark, surr, or only the hair of her?”
“I don’t mean a nigger, Andy!” I thought I would be even with him for
once in a way. He laughed heartily.
“Oh! my but that’s a good wan. Be the hokey, a girrul can be dark
enough fur any man widout bein’ a naygur. Glory be to God, but I niver
seen a faymale naygur meself, but I suppose there’s such things; God’s
very good to all his craythurs! But, barrin’ naygurs, must she be all
dark?”
“Well not of necessity, but I certainly prefer what we call a brunette.”
“A bru-net. What’s that now; I’ve heerd a wheen o’ quare things in me
time, but I niver heerd a woman called that before.”
I tried to explain the term; he seemed to understand, but his only
comment was:—
“Well, God is very good,” and then went on with his queries.
“How might she be dressed?” he looked very sly as he asked the question.
“Simply! The dress is not particular—that can easily be altered. For
myself, just at present, I should like her in the dress they all wear
here, some pretty kind of body and a red petticoat.”
“Thrue for ye!” said Andy. Then he went over the list ticking off the
items on his fingers as he went along:—
“A long, dark girrul, like belly bakin, but not a naygur, some kind iv
a net, an’ wid a rid petticoat, an’ a quare kind iv an eye! Is that the
kind iv a girrul that yer ’an’r wants to set yer eyes on?”
“Well,” said I, “item by item, as you explain them, Andy, the
description is correct; but I must say, that never in my life did I
know a man to so knock the bottom out of romance as you have done in
summing-up the lady’s charms.”
“Her charrums, is it? Be the powers! I only tuk what yer ’an’r tould
me. An’ so that’s the girrul that id shute yer?”
“Yes! Andy. I think she would.” I waited in expectation, but he said
nothing. So I jogged his memory:—
“Well!” He looked at me in a most peculiar manner, and said slowly and
impressively:—
“Thin I can sahtisfy yer ’an’r. There’s no such girrul in all
Knocknacar!” I smiled a smile of triumph:—
“You’re wrong for once, Andy. I saw such a girl only yesterday, here on
the top of this mountain, just where we’re sitting now.”
Andy jumped up as if he had been sitting on an ant-hill, and had
suddenly been made aware of it. He looked all round in a frightened
way, but I could see that he was only acting, and said:—
“Glory be to God! but maybe it’s the fairies, it was, or the pixies!
Shure they do say that there’s lots an’ lots an’ lashins iv them on
this hill. Don’t ye have nothin’ to say to thim, surr! There’s only
sorra follys thim. Take an ould man’s advice, an’ don’t come up here
any more. The shpot is dangerous to ye. If ye want to see a fine girrul
go to Shleenanaher, an’ have a good luk at Miss Norah in the daylight.”
“Oh, bother Miss Norah!” said I. “Get along with you—do! I think
you’ve got Miss Norah on the brain; or perhaps you’re in love with her
yourself.” Andy murmured _sotto voce_, but manifestly for me to hear:—
“Begor, I am, like the rist iv the bhoys—av course!”
Here I looked at my watch, and found it was three o’clock, so thought
it was time to get rid of him.
“Here,” said I “run down to the men at the cutting and tell them that
I’m coming down presently to measure up their work, as Mr. Sutherland
will want to know how they’ve got on.”
Andy moved off. Before going, however, he had something to say, as
usual:—
“Tell me, Misther Art”—this new name startled me, Andy had evidently
taken me into his public family—“do ye think Misther Dick”—this was
another surprise—“has an eye on Miss Norah?” There was a real shock
this time.
“I see him lukin’ at her wance or twice as if he’d like to ate her;
but, bedad, it’s no use if he has, for she wouldn’t luk at him. No
wondher! an’ him helpin’ to be takin’ her father’s houldin’ away from
him.”
I could not answer Andy’s question as to poor old Dick’s feelings, for
such was his secret, and not mine; but I determined not to let there
be any misapprehension regarding his having a hand in Murdock’s dirty
work, so I spoke hotly:—
“You tell anyone that dares to say that Dick Sutherland has any act or
part, good or bad—large or small—in that dirty ruffian’s dishonourable
conduct, that he is either a knave or a fool—at any rate he is a liar!
Dick is simply a man of science engaged by Murdock, as any other man of
science might be, to look after some operations in regard to his bog.”
Andy’s comment was made _sotto voce_, so I thought it better not to
notice it.
“Musha! but the bogs iv all kinds is gettin’ mixed up quarely. Here’s
another iv them. Misther Dick is engaged to luk afther the bogs. An’ so
he does, but his eyes goes wandherin’ among thim. There does be bogs iv
all kinds now all over these parts. It’s quare times we’re in, or I’m
gettin’ ould!”
With this Parthian shaft Andy took himself down the hill, and presently
I saw the good effects of his presence in stimulating the workmen to
more ardent endeavours, for they all leaned on their spades whilst he
told them a long story, which ended in a tumult of laughter.
I might have enjoyed the man’s fun, but I was in no laughing humour. I
had got anxious long ago because _she_ had not visited the hill-top.
I looked all round, but could see no sign of her anywhere. I waited
and waited, and the time truly went on leaden wings. The afternoon sun
smote the hill-top with its glare, more oppressive always than even the
noontide heat.
I lingered on and lingered still, and hope died within me.
When six o’clock had come I felt that there was no more chance for me
that day; so I went sadly down the hill, and, after a glance for Dick’s
sake at the cutting, sought the sheebeen where Andy had the horse ready
harnessed in the car. I assumed as cheerful an aspect as I could, and
flattered myself that I carried off the occasion very well. It was not
at all flattering, however, to my histrionic powers to hear Andy, as
we were driving off, whisper in answer to a remark deploring how sad I
looked, made by the old lady who kept the sheebeen:—
“Whisht! Don’t appear to notice him, or ye’ll dhrive him mad. Me
opinion is that he’s been wandherin’ on the mountain too long, an’
tamperin’ wid the rings on the grass—you know—an’ that he has seen the
fairies!” Then he said aloud and ostentatiously:—
“Gee up! ye ould corncrake—ye ought to be fresh enough—ye’ve niver left
the fut iv the hill all the day,”—then turning to me, “An’ sure, surr,
it’s goin’ to the top that takes it out iv wan—ayther a horse or a man.”
I made no answer, and in silence we drove to Carnaclif, where I found
Dick impatiently waiting dinner for me.
I was glad to find that he was full of queries concerning the cutting,
for it saved me from the consideration of subjects more difficult to
answer satisfactorily. Fortunately I was able to give a good account
of the time spent, for the work done had far exceeded my expectations.
I thought that Dick was in much better spirits than he had been; but
it was not until the subject of the bog at Knocknacar was completely
exhausted that I got any clue on the subject. I then asked Dick if he
had had a good time at Shleenanaher?
“Yes!” he answered. “Thank God! the work is nearly done. We went over
the whole place to-day and there was only one indication of iron. This
was in the bog just beside an elbow where Joyce’s land—his present
land—touches ours; no! I mean on Murdock’s, the scoundrel!” He was
quite angry with himself for using the word “ours” even accidentally.
“And has anything come of it?” I asked him.
“Nothing! Now that he knows it is there, he would not let me go near
it on any account. I’m in hopes he’ll quarrel with me soon in order to
get rid of me, so that he may try by himself to fish it—whatever it may
be—out of the bog. If he does quarrel with me! Well! I only hope he
will; I have been longing for weeks past to get a chance at him. Then
she’ll believe, perhaps——” He stopped.
“You saw her to-day, Dick!”
“How did you know that?”
“Because you look so happy, old man!”
“Yes! I did see her; but only for a moment. She drove up in the middle
of the day, and I saw her go up to the new house. But she didn’t even
see me,” and his face fell. Presently he asked:—
“You didn’t see your girl?”
“No, Dick, I did not! But how did you know?”
“I saw it in your face when you came in!”
We sat and smoked in silence. The interruption came in the shape of
Andy:—
“I suppose, Masther Art, the same agin to-morra—unless ye’d like me
to bring ye wid Masther Dick to see Shleenanaher—ye know the shpot,
surr—where Miss Norah is!”
He grinned, and as we said nothing, made his exit.