hich at all
times had a long tether, strayed far afield. He did not hear Denis
O'Meara inquire of him twice whether Ody Rafferty had got his fine price
for the old pony; not yet Peter Ryan rejoin after an interval that he
supposed it was such a big one, anyway, Hugh McInerney couldn't get it
out of his mouth--that was sizable enough. No doubt it was this symptom
of absentmindedness that emboldened Thady Joyce to set about twitching
out of Hugh's pocket the flimsy paper parcel seen protruding from it, a
feat which he achieved undetected, while his surrounding accomplices
nudged one another and whispered: "Och he has it now--whoo-oo he'll do
it."

Thady conveyed what he had filched to Molly and Nelly Ryan, who
manipulated it for some time amid much giggling; and then Nelly, with
dexterous audacity pinned their handiwork on to the cap of her neighbour
Denis O'Meara, who sat all unawares. Thus it came to pass that when Hugh
was at last roused to a vague sense of tittering all round him, which
reached him much as the clacking chirp of sparrows gets meaninglessly
into our frayed morning dreams, and looking up out of his reverie,
stared about him for an explanation, the first thing his eyes lit on was
Denis's smart cap surmounted by a mass of gaudy yellow ribbon in immense
bows and loops and streamers, flapping and waggling absurdly at every
movement made by their unsuspecting wearer. And the spectacle caught his
breath, and dazzled his sight with a sudden scorching blast of wrath.
For it seemed to him that Denis was not making merely a mock of him and
his fairing, which he thought intrinsically of small amount, but through
it of Theresa herself and her foolish little fancies. And there sat
Theresa looking on, with a quick pink flush, and shining eyes, and a
quiver about her mouth. The next moment Hugh had hurled at the bedizened
cap what he happened to be holding in his hand. And this was Paddy
Ryan's new reaping-hook.

Thereupon followed a terrible confusion and clamour, which seemed to
fill at a sweep all the spacious drowsy light of the sunsetting. For the
missile had gone surely to its mark, and had not simply knocked off
Denis's cap, but made a shocking gash in his temple, so that there were
only too sufficient reasons for the rising shrieks of "Holy Virgin, he's
murdhered--he's kilt!" Amid all the turmoil, with Denis fallen on the
ground, and Hugh standing staring, and everybody else rushing through
other like crows i