‘Sure, now, that’s Tim Healy, come in from Out Back, an’ his cheque
gone already! Lend a hand, will ye, sorr, wid the other ind av him.
The poor devil ’ll be sthruck intirely here, so he will.’
So, one at each ‘ind,’ we bear the man from Out Back into the
comparative shade of a verandah, where the constable takes off his
boots, loosens his shirt collar, and props his head up, saying,—
‘There, the cratur, mebbe he’ll waken wid nothin’ worse nor a sore
head, an’ a limekiln in the throttle av him.’
A fit man and a proper, this one, I reflect, to be Officer in Charge
of this half-forgotten fragment of a people.
So, presently, I am not surprised at hearing that, in addition to that
title, he bears the important ones of Clerk of Petty Sessions,
Registrar of Small Debts Court and Births, Land Bailiff, Inspector of
Slaughterhouses, Curator’s Agent, and others equally pertinent to his
surroundings, but which I have forgotten.
Entering the parlour of the one public-house, silent and deserted but
for clouds of humming flies, a drowsy landlord, booted and spurred for
riding, answers our knock.
‘I was goin’ over the river an hour ago,’ he explains, rubbing his
bleary eyes, ‘to run a beast in; but two or three of the boys wos here
larst night, an’ they kep’ it up; so I lays down on the sofy an’ drops
right off. What’ll ye have, gents?’