erney; at any rate she said, "Aye, he's
a terrible big man, isn't he? Apt to knock the head off himself he'd be
if he was offerin' to come in at our door."

However, on the very next day Denis contrived to accomplish that feat
without any such accident when he called in at the Joyces' to ask was
his grandmother there--which she was not, nor indeed likely to be.
Failing to find the old woman, he postponed his quest for the present
and stayed talking to Theresa, who, as it happened, was at home; and
then he stopped again outside to help Hugh McInerney by handing him up
some rolls of green-sodded scraws and slippery bundles of rushes. His
long reach made him serviceable here, though his left arm was still
partially disabled by the sabre-cut that had invalided him. The gleam of
the red coat at the Joyces' door had apparently as fascinating an effect
upon Lisconnel as if the place had been inhabited by a population that
bellowed and gobbled its greetings instead of saying, "How's yourself,
lad?" and "It's a grand day, thank God," as it came sauntering up
dispersedly from various quarters. Before many minutes had passed quite
a numerous group were collected, for in these long midsummer days there
is little to be done up here except save the turf, a business which fine
weather makes short work of. In the weeks before the potato-digging,
employment becomes as scarce as the pitaties themselves, and the hours
hang limp and flaccid between the meals which punctuate them with a
plateful of coarse-grained gruel. Therefore to Christy Sheridan and
Terence Kilfoyle, with half a dozen of their neighbours, the sight of
their distinguished visitor was an oasis in a very arid desert, and they
made towards it thirstily.

By and by the group drifted away from the road before the Joyces' house
into the rough sward behind it; rather literally drifted, as the cause
of the move was the wind, a strong soft west wind which had been blowing
over the bog all the morning in great wide gusts. They seemed to lean
hard against whatever they met, and made standing still an effort, and
devastated conversation by carrying off important fragments of it
uncaught, no matter how loudly one bawled. But the big boulders and
furze-clumps strewn about in a slight depression close by offered seats
and shelter opportunely; so amongst them presently appeared Denis
O'Meara's scarlet tunic, and Theresa Joyce's brown-striped shawl, and
Mrs. Ryan's white-frilled flappin