In Chimney Corners - McManus Seumas (книги онлайн бесплатно .txt) 📗

“Do ye hear me, my man?” sez he to Donal.

“Oh, I’m listenin’,” sez Donal, going on with his whistling.

“Ye wouldn’t be feeling hungry for a pick of something to eat?” sez he.

“Throgs, no; I’m thankful to you,” sez Donal.

He studied on himself a while, and shook his head. “You’re here, now—let me see—One, two, three, four, five—this is your fifth day,” sez he, “you’re here, now, and what’s strikin’ me as odd, bite or sup didn’t cross your lips since ye come here,” sez he.

“Didn’t they, though?” sez Donal, back again to him that way, with a knowing wink.

This give him a sort of a start. “And sure they didn’t?” sez he.

“That’s all you know about it, me rare ould buck,” sez Donal, sez he, “I’m livin’ like a prence,” sez he, “on the best of everything, lavings and lashings, and no thanks to nobody,” sez Donal.

“Livin’ like a prence?” sez the ould fella. “An’ in the name of powdher,” sez he, “where did you get the mait?”

“I got it in the town,” sez Donal, “where any one will get it that gives value for it. There’s no day the sun rises that there doesn’t pass by the barn door here, goin’ to the town, a string of carts as long as the day an’ the morra; an’ what’s aisier done nor throwin’ a sack of that whait on them—an’ throth,” sez Donal, handlin’ a couple of grains of it, “bully whait it is; the shop-keepers is sendin’ me out word to send in all I can of it, and they’ll insure me the top of the market-what’s aisier, I say,” sez Donal, sez he, “than hoistin’ a sack or two of that fine whait on one of them carts betimes, an’ gettin’ back the worth of it in the best of everything, aitable, or drinkable?” sez Donal.

“What? my whait!” sez the curmudgeon, dancing with rage. “Is it my whait! Is it send my whait to the town, ye villainous scoundrelly—”

“Aisy, aisy, masther,” sez Donal. “Aisy, avic, are ye displaised with me?” sez he, that way.

Ah, an’ by the boots the ould fellow didn’t know whether it was on his head or his heels he was, when he seen he was cornered. He changed the tune all at wanst.

“Oh, no, no,” sez he, “I’m right well plaised with ye, Donal.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” sez Donal.

“Maybe you’re displaised a bit with me,” sez he to Donal, thinkin’ to corner him.

“Not by no mains,” sez Donal. “Ye’re a bully masther, so ye are.”

Well, that fared well, and the ould fellow wint away chokin’ with rage, an’ plottin’ an’ plannin, what anondher the sun he’d do to catch Donal. Me brave Donal come whistlin’ home and wint to his bed, an’ the nixt mornin’ when he got up, his masther comes to him, and he give him two wild horses, and sends him out to plough with them, and—

“Donal,” sez he pointin’ out the field he was to go ploughin’ in, “Donal,” sez he “ye’re not to leave that bit of a field till ye have it ploughed.

“Well, masther,” sez Donal, sez he, “I’ll do me best, and off Donal starts with the horses to the field, but, phew! if Donal was workin’ at them horses from that time till now could he get them to pull in the plough. Donal soon seen that there was no use workin’ with them so down he sits him on the ditch, and started up a lively lilt for company till he sees, comin’ along the road, a hawker with two miserable old rickles of skin and bones that went undher the name of horses—they were broken kneed, and broken-winded, and broken-boned and broken in everything only the appetite, and their hides was as white with stress of age as the top of Croagh Gorm on a Christmas mornin’, and one of them had only three legs dhrawin’ pay, and the other of them had a cough and a spit, and together they were like a walking infirm’ry, and when the hawker dhrew them up opposite where Donal was ploughin’, and let them lean up again’ each other to rest, sez Donal, sez he:

“Them’s very manageable little bastes of yours,” sez he.

“Well, sure enough, I can’t complain of their being wild that way,” sez the hawker.

“What do you think if you had these two fine black horses of mine?” sez Donal.

“I’d be afther not knowin’ meself with pride if I had them spirited animals,” sez he. “Quiet bastes like this pair of mine,” sez he, “is all very well in their way; but when they come to be so very shy and backward that ye must pull them down wan hill, an’ push them up the next) that’s what I call,” sez he, “too much of a good thing.”

“Right ye are, me good man,” sez Donal. “An if ye have ten poun’ on ye, I’ll take that of boot an’ swap with ye.”

“Done,” sez the hawker.

An’ then an’ there both of them unloosed their yokes an’ Donal got the ten poun’, an’ then tackling the two objects that it was a moral to see, into the plough, he started work at once, an’ when his master comes out in the middle of the day to see how Donal was gettin’ on an’ seen the two morals that he was sthrivin’ to drive afore him in the plough, it was hard to say whether it was his eyes or his mouth that he opened widest.

“I say me good man,” sez he.

“Say away,” sez Donal, layin’ on the bastes as hard as he could.

“Where’s my two horses, I give ye this mornin’?”

“Make use of yer eyes,” sez Donal, sez he, “an’ ye’ll see them.”

“Get out, ye scoundhril,” sez he, “them white scarecrows aren’t mine. My horses were black,” sez he.

“Thrue for ye, masther,” sez Donal, “so they were black this morning; but they were so uncommon hard to manage that I have coloured them white since with the sweat I tuk out iv them.”

“To the dickens with that for a story,” sez the ould fellow, sez he, jumpin’ at Donal’s throat. “Get me my horses, ye ruffian ye, or be this an’ be that,” sez he, “I’ll not leave a bone in yer body I won’t make into jelly, ye morodin’ thief ye!” sez he.

“What, what, masther,” sez Donal, sez he, “sure it’s not angry with me ye are?”

“Oh, no, no, not at all,” sez he, comin’ to his senses at wanst—“not at all,” sez he, “ye’re the best boy ever I had.”

“An throgs, an’,” sez Donal, sez he, “you’re the best masther iver I had.”

An’ away the masther goes with his mouth in a puss, an’ away goes Donal with his tongue in his cheek, an’ got his breakwist, an’ did as he liked the remainder of that day.

Well, there the masther was in a purty pickle, an’ he didn’t know, ondher the shinin’ sun what to do with Donal, an’ he said to himself if he had him much longer Donal would have him dead, desthroyed, ruinated entirely, an’ robbed, so he took it into his head that the best thing to be done was to ordher Donal to go to the woods in’ catch the wild loy-on (lion) that was killin’ an’ desthroyin’ all afore him, an’ bring him alive to his masther’s house. “An’ if that doesn’t settle him,” sez the masther, sez he, to himself, “I don’t know what will.”

So, gettin’ up betimes next mornin’, he calls Donal in.

“Donal,” sez he, “there’s a wild loy-on in the woods beyant, an’ he’s murderin’ an’ killin’ all afore him, an’ I want you go and catch him, an’ lead him up here alive afore twelve o’clock this day, or if ye fail to do that I’ll have ye beheaded as soon as ye come back.”

“All right,” sez Donal, sez he, “there’s no use biddin’ the divil ’good-morra’ ’till ye meet him, so in the meantime I’ll go and sthrive to fetch in the loy-on, an’ we’ll talk of the beheadin’ business later.”

Off for the woods then Donal starts, an’ when he got there, down on the stump of a tree me brave Donal sits, with his considherin’ cap like, on him, an’ “Donal, me lad,” sez he to himself, “ye had a good many pulls in ye, but ye’re at the en’ o’ yer tether now; when yerself, me boy, in’ the wild loy-on meets that will be the last pull, an’ then, och, och! the Lord be good to poor Myles, the poor boy at home, without a lug on him,” sez he, “och, the Goodman, pity him, what’s to become of him when I’m gone?”

All at wanst Donal sees a little red man comin’ forrid to him with a bridle in his hand.