Tales and Novels Volume VIII Part 36

_Miss G._ Indeed, sir, whatever way you're walking, it's with your head upside down, as any body may notice, and that don't plase me at all--isn't it a shame, in a morning?

_Christy._ Phoo! don't be talking of shame, you that knows nothing about it. But lend me the kay of the spirits, Florry.

_Miss G._ Sir, my name's Florinda--and I've not the kay of the spirits at all, nor any such vulgar thing.

_Christy._ Vulgar! is it the kay?

_Miss G._ Yes, sir, it's very vulgar to be keeping of kays.

_Christy._ That's lucky, for I've lost all mine now. Every single kay I have in the wide world now I lost, barring this kay of the spirits, and that must be gone after the rest too I b'lieve, since you know nothing of it, unless it be in this here chist.

[_CHRISTY goes to the chest._

_Miss G._ Oh, mercy, sir!--Take care of the looking-gla.s.s, which is broke already. Oh, then, father, 'tis not in the chist, 'pon my word and honour now, if you'll b'lieve: so don't be rummaging of all my things.

[_CHRISTY persists in opening the chest._

_Christy._ It don't signify, Florry; I've granted myself a gineral sarch-warrant; dear, for the kay; and, by the blessing, I'll go clane to the bottom o' this chist. (_Miss GALLAGHER writhes in agony._) Why, what makes you stand twisting there like an eel or an ape, child?--What, in the name of the ould one, is it you're afeard on?--Was the chist full now of love-letter scrawls from the grand signior or the pope himself, you could not be more tinder of them.

_Miss G._ Tinder, sir!--to be sure, when it's my best bonnet I'm thinking on, which you are mas.h.i.+ng entirely.

_Christy._ Never fear, dear! I won't mash an atom of the bonnet, provided always, you'll mash these apples for me, jewel. (_He takes apples out of the chest._) And wasn't I lucky to find them in it? Oh, I knew I'd not sarch this chist for nothing. See how they'll make an iligant apple-pie for Mr. Gilbert now, who loves an iligant apple-pie above all things--your iligant self always excipted, dear.

[_Miss GALLAGHER makes a slight curtsy, but motions the apples from her._

_Miss G._ Give the apples then to the girl, sir, and she'll make you the pie, for I suppose she knows how.

_Christy._ And don't you, then, Florry?

_Miss G._ And how should I, sir?--You didn't send me to the dancing-school of Ferrinafad to larn me to make apple-pies, I conclude.

_Christy._ Troth, Florry, 'twas not I sint you there, sorrow foot but your mother; only she's in her grave, and it's bad to be talking ill of the dead any way. But be that how it will, Mr. Gilbert must get the apple-pie, for rasons of my own that need not be mintioned. So, Biddy!

Biddy, girl! Biddy Doyle!

_Enter BIDDY, running, with a ladle in her hand._

_Christy._ Drop whatever you have in your hand, and come here, and be hanged to you! And had you no ears to your head, Biddy?

_Biddy._ Sure I have, sir--ears enough. Only they are bothering me so without, that pig and the dog fighting, that I could not hear ye calling at-all-at-all. What is it?--For I'm skimming the pot, and can't lave it.

[_Miss GALLAGHER goes on dressing_

_Christy._ It's only these apples, see!--You'll make me an apple-pie, Biddy, smart.

_Biddy._ Save us, sir!--And how will I ever get time, when I've the hash to make for them Scotch yet? Nor can I tell, for the life of me, what it was I did with the onions and scallions neither, barring by great luck they'd be in and under the press here--(_running to look under the press_)--which they are, praised be G.o.d! in the far corner.

[_BIDDY stretches her arm under the press._

_Christy._ There's a nice girl, and a 'cute cliver girl, worth a dozen of your Ferrinafads.

[_BIDDY throws the onions out from under the press, while he speaks._

_Miss G._ Then she's as idle a girl as treads the earth, in or out of shoe-leather, for there's my bed that she has not made yet, and the stairs with a month's dust always; and never ready by any chance to do a pin's worth for one, when one's dressing.

[_A drum heard; the sound seems to be approaching near._

_Christy._ Blood! the last rowl of the drum, and I not got the kay of the spirits.

_Miss G._ Oh, saints above! what's gone with my plaid scarf?--and my hair _behind_, see!

[_Miss GALLAGHER twists up her hair behind.--BIDDY gathers up the onions into her ap.r.o.n, and exit hastily.--CHRISTY runs about the room in a distracted manner, looking under and over every thing, repeating_--The kay! the kay! the kay!

_Christy._ For the whiskey must be had for them Scotch, and the bottled beer too for them English; and how will I get all or any without the kay? Bones, and distraction!

_Miss G._ And my plain hanke'cher that must be had, and where will I find it, in the name of all the damons, in this chaos you've made me out of the chist, father? And how will I git all in again, before the drum-major's in it?

_Christy._ (_sweeping up a heap of things in his arms, and throwing them into the chest_) Very asy, sure! this ways.

_Miss G._ (_darting forward_) There's the plaid hanke'cher.--(_She draws it out from the heap under her father's arm, and smooths it on her knee._) But, oh! father, how you are making hay of my things!

_Christy._ Then I wish I could make hay of them, for hay is much wanting for the horses that's in it.

_Miss G._ (_putting on her plaid scarf_) Weary on these pins! that I can't stick any way at all, my hands all trimble so.--Biddy! Biddy!

Biddy! Biddy, can't ye?--(_Re-enter BIDDY, looking bewildered._) Just pin me behind, girl--smart.

_Christy._ Biddy is it?--Biddy, girl, come over and help me tramp down this hay.

[_CHRISTY jumps into the chest._

_Miss G._ Oh, Biddy, run and stop him, for the love of G.o.d! with his brogues and big feet.

_Biddy._ Oh, marcy! that's too bad, sir; get out o' that if you plase, or Miss Florry will go mad, sure! and the major that's coming up the street--Oh, sir, if you plase, in the name of mercy!

_Christy._ (_jumping out_) Why, then, sittle it all yourself, Biddy, and success to you; but you'll no more get all in again afore Christmas, to the best of my opinion, no more, see! than you'd get bottled porter, froth and all, into the bottle again, once it was out.

_Miss G._ Such comparisons!--(_tossing back her head._)

_Christy._ And caparisons!--(_pointing to the finery on the floor._) But in the middle of it all, lend me the poker, which will answer for the master-kay, sure!--that poker that is houlding up the window--can't ye, Biddy?

[_BIDDY runs and pulls the poker hastily from under the sash, which suddenly falls, and every pane of gla.s.s falls out and breaks._

_Christy._ Murder! and no glazier!

_Miss G._ Then Biddy, of all girls, alive or dead, you're the awk'ardest, vulgarest, unluckiest to touch any thing at all!

_Biddy._ (_picking up the gla.s.s_) I can't think what's come to the gla.s.s, that makes it break so asy the day! Sure I done it a hundred times the same, and it never broke wid me afore.

_Christy._ Well! stick up a petticoat, or something of the kind, and any way lend me hould of the poker; for, in lieu of a kay, that's the only frind in need.