by Carol Norton
*CHAPTER XXIII*
*A DAY'S SHOOT*
"Alas! that, when the changing year Brings round the blessed day, The hearts of little native boys Wax keen to hunt and slay, As if the chime of Christmas time Were but a call to prey." BRUNTON STEPHENS.
"S-a-n-d-e-e! S-a-n-d-e-e!"
"H-e-ll-o! H-e-ll-o!"
"Where--are--you?"
"Down--here."
"Where's here?"
"Find--out!"
"Where's that horrid Sandy, Joe?" exclaimed Jessie M'Intyre to JoeBlain, as she came out into the back yard, shortly after breakfast, onefine morning a few days after the brumby hunt.
"Can't split on me mates, Jess."
"You're a nasty, good-for-nothing boy, Joe Blain: that's what I think of_you_, and I don't care if you _do_ know it."
"Tweedlum, tweedlum, tweedlum twee, The cat and the rat ran up the tree,"
quoth Joe, as he capered about just out of reach of the girl, who chasedhim round the room with a broom.
It so happened that as Joe was dancing past the kitchen window, Ah Fatthe cook was in the very act of throwing out a dish of kitchen slops,and the contents struck him fair on the head and shoulders.
This unintended but well-delivered blow came so swiftly and sounexpectedly that for the moment Joe was stupefied, gasping andspluttering between wind and water, so to speak. He cut so ludicrous afigure that Jessie had to fairly hold her sides with laughter. Meanwhilethe innocent Ah Fat stood gazing at the spectacle in amazement.
"Oh, Missee Joe, I welly solly. Me neffer see you when me tlew um----"
"You jolly Chinaman!" cried Joe, in great wrath. "You--you--yellowjoss!"
With that the irate boy jumped through the window and vigorouslyassaulted the cook with hands and feet.
"Oh!--Missee Joe--welly solly. O--h! Oh, Clismus! O-u-c-h!"
At first genuine sorrow controlled the Celestial. And indeed the onsetwas so furious and determined that the Chinaman had enough to do infending blows, and was not a little alarmed. But when Joe, in closing,clutched him by the head, and essayed to unwind his pig-tail, alarmyielded to horror at this unexpected indignity. An ominous glitter cameinto his eye, and a string of curses in his native tongue flew from theangry heathen.
The boy, having loosened the tail, wound a coil of it round his hand,and began to give fierce tugs. Passion in an Oriental may take anyturn. A passion-fired Chinaman, however well-disposed and peaceablyinclined at other times, will wreak his vengeance regardless of moralissues. With a yell of mingled pain and rage the maddened man executeda Chinese edition of Jiu-jitsu, sending his youthful antagonist whirlingthrough the air, to come down with a rattling bump that shook the breathfrom his body. Fortunately for Joe, the part of his anatomy which borethe brunt of the contact was that least susceptible to damage.
This act would have been followed by one severer still had not Mrs.M'Intyre at that moment run into the kitchen, and, seeing the fallen boyat the mercy of the rage-possessed Chow, who was in the act of assaultand battery, made for the man with a shrill scream, and hauled him offthe prostrate lad. All the while, John Chinaman was in a state of wildexcitability, sending forth a torrential stream of pidgin-English.
Joe tumbled to his feet none the worse for the bout save a bruise ortwo. The sight of Ah Fat with flowing pig-tail and grotesquegesticulation sent the lad into fits of laughter. This only the moreincensed his adversary, who made another effort to get at him, beinghardly prevented by Mrs. M'Intyre. In this hilarity Joe was joined byJess, who had followed her mother and stood first in terror, but nowwith hearty laughter.
"Joe Blain, get out of this kitchen this moment, you wicked boy! Bequiet, Ah Fat, or I'll call for one of the men! Stop laughing at once,Jess, you bold hussy, or I'll box your ears!"
Both Joe and Jess disappeared in a flash, and this had the effect ofcalming the Chinaman, who told the tale to his mistress as well as hisperturbed condition and broken English would allow.
"Me thlo dirtee watah outa window. Joee comin' plast. Me no see him.Watah 'it 'im head and soljer. He jumpee tloo window, pullee hair, wellyangly. Me get angly too, and thlo 'im down."
"Quite true," said Joe, who suddenly appeared at the window. "It's allmy fault. He didn't see me, I'm sure, when he pitched the stuff out.My paddy got up, an' I went for him like a terrier. I think theterrier's got the worst of it, eh, Ah Fat?"
The quick acknowledgment of wrong produced an immediate effect on AhFat. There was a winning grace about Joe that few could withstand.Hitherto he had been the cook's favourite. And now, no sooner did heexpress his sorrow for the summary proceedings, and own his defeat, thanthe mantling frown of anger on the Chinaman's forehead vanished, and hisdingy and stolid countenance lit up with a smile.
"Me welly solly----"
"Oh, stow that! No harm done. I'm off to get rid of this muck," criedJoe, as he disappeared from the window. A few moments later, Joe was inthe act of passing this same opening to convey a message to Sandy, whowas doing a job for his father in the carpenter's room, at the rear ofthe stables.
The act was observed by Ah Fat, who made a rapid move to the window.
"Hello, Joe!"
"Hello, Ah Fat!"
"Come here, Joe," said the Flowery-Lander, beckoning as he spoke.
"No more soap-suds, Ah Fat?"
"No mo dirtee watah," said he of the pig-tail grinningly. "See a-here,Joe"--displaying a jam pasty, hot from the oven. "You takee displastee. Stlawbelly jam, welly good."
"By Caesar! Ah Fat, you're no end of a brick!" cried Joe, as hereceived the peace-offering with eager hands and glistening eyes.
"Saundy, ye scoondrel!" shouted he a moment later, bursting in uponSandy, who was spoke-shaving a piece of timber designed for a swinglebar. "Didn't you hear Jess call you a few minutes ago?"
"I did hear some sort of a cackling an' flustration. What's up?"
"We've got to go an' shoot some ducks."
"That all?"
"That all, ye cauld-blooded Scotchman!"
"An' when have we to go?"
"Now, at once, immediately, if not sooner, ye spalpeen."
"Ye're an odd mixture of Scotch an' Irish this morn, me hairy-breastedhero, an' a bad hand at either. But why all the hurry about the ducks?"
"Your mother's just got word to say some chaps are coming out fromTareela to dinner this evening, an' they're sure to expect game."
"All serene. Tom comin'?"
"No, he ain't. He's out with Harry on the run. There's only you an' mefor't."
"I'll be with you in a jiff, my son. Just finishing this bar."
"Where'll we go for the birds, Sandy?"
"Up the creek, I s'pose. Too far out to the swamp if it's to-night theywant them. There's a mob o' woods I'd like to get a smack at--the oneswe saw when we were fishin'."
"Jacky told me yesterday he saw 'em the other night roosting on the olddead gum just at the junction of Mosquito Crick an' the Crocodile. Howfar d'ye call that?"
"'Bout three mile."
"Your mother said we are to try and get some pigeons when we're out."
"Used to be a lot o' pigeons in the scrub; but the last time Dickson andsome other coves came out shooting, they went through the scrub, butdidn't see a feather--so they said."
"No good goin' there, then?"
"Well, I don't know. We can give it a try, I s'pose. What's the time,Joe?"
"Struck ten as I came along; so we'd bes' be off in less'n no time,sonny."
In a few minutes the boys were loaded up with guns, ammunition, sculls,and the tucker bag. They decided to take the skiff and try their luckon the water, instead of stalking the game along the banks.
"Don't be later than four o'clock. Try and be back before, ifpossible."
"All serene, mother; we'll be back on time, luck or no luck."
"We'll fetch you some shags anyhow for fish
soup," yelled back Joe asthe lads walked briskly along.
Sandy took the oars at the start, Joe sitting in the stern with hismuzzle-loader. Breech-loaders were at that time a rarity in Australia.There were handicaps in shooting in those days of the muzzle-loader, thepowder-horn, and the shot belt, when compared with the modernchoke-bore, smokeless powder, etc. But there were compensations. Menwere far more careful of their ammunition. Loading itself was an art inwhich the expert took considerable pride. To every novice the formulawas carefully given by the senior--
"Ram your powder well, but not your lead, If you want to kill dead."
But, beyond all other considerations, there was more of the element ofsport in it. There was a greater call for skill. The very limitationsof gunnery in those days put the game on a nearer footing of equalitywith the hunter. There were greater chances for the quarry, andtherefore greater merit in the kill. These are the days of machinery,and even in gunnery there is a disposition to do the work by turning ahandle--"pumping the lead into 'em," as the moderns put it.
Sandy's father was the possessor of a renowned Joe Manton, and many werethe tales told by the lad of his father's prowess and the wonderfuldistances at which this Joe Manton could kill.
The creek on both sides was lined for the most part with rushes, weeds,and water-reeds, which afforded fine cover and food for the wild-fowl.It was possible to pass within short distances of the ducks in therushes without being aware of their presence.
"Keep your eyes skinned along here, Joe," remarked Sandy, after rowingsome distance. "Might start a brace at any time."
The words were hardly out of the boy's mouth when a bird rose out of thereeds with a great flutter. Joe's gun was up in a trice, and before ithad flown a dozen yards, it fell into the water with a splash.
"Good shot, Joe; but what's the use of wasting powder and shot over ared-bill? Thought you knew a coot from a duck."
"Well--I--I'm blest! If I'm not a dumplin'-headed, double-dyed duffer!As if I hadn't shot tons of 'em. Well, well, well!"
"It's not well at all," answered Sandy with a grin, as the boat glidedpast the beautiful glossy black and purple-hued bird, which, thoughedible enough, generally ran to toughness, and was not classed as game.Yet a plump red-bill that has fattened on the river-end patch of thesettlers' maize is by no means to be despised.
Joe quietly reloaded, and was doubly on the _qui vive_ after themisadventure. He had his revenge before long, for on rounding the pointthey ran into a mob of teal which were camping on a shady mud-beach.The teal rose in a very alert fashion, flying back over the boat.Quickly turning, Joe poured the contents of right and left barrels intothe retreating birds. Three of them soused into the water, two of whichwere stone-dead. The third, though badly wounded, was neverthelessexceedingly agile in dodging the boat by diving. After some trouble theboys managed to secure it, and so a good start towards a full bag wasmade.
Then their luck departed for a while. Two or three pairs of black duckrose, but out of range.
"Here, Sandy, let me take the oars and give you a spell," said Joe,after proceeding about two miles from the landing. The positions werereversed, and the boat sped on its way to the junction.
"Pull easy, Joe," said Sandy, as that point came in sight. "There's achance of the wood-duck on the spit. We mustn't miss this lot, anyway.You'd best land me here, ole man, an' I'll stalk 'em."
Joe, whose back faced the spit, to coin an Irishism, turned round tosurvey the birds, which clustered thickly on the spit-end.
"See 'em, Joe," said Sandy excitedly. "It's a grand mob. If I don'tknock half a dozen, you may----"
"Bag the whole bloomin' lot if you like, Sandy M'Intyre," replied therower, who had been gazing intently on the birds, and now turned to hismate with an amused smile.
"Why--why--whatcher mean?"
"Mean! Mr. Alexander Duff M'Intyre, bushman, waterman, sportsman, andnaturalist by profession, but only a Scotch mixture of bat an' mole forall that! Why----"
"Do you mean to insinuate, Joe Blain, that yon's not a mob ofwood-duck?"
"Yes; and ready to swear to it till all's blue. I _did_ think you knewthe difference between a duck of any sort and a plover!"
"You call 'em plov----?"
Here one of the birds stretched its neck, flapped its wings, gave a hopand a short run, plover-ways, and finished with the typical harsh note.
"Great Donald! you're right, man!" finished the boy, in a mortified toneand with a considerable amount of disgust.
"Oh, well," he resumed, after a moment's silence, "a few plover won'tcome amiss, especially if we don't collar any more duck. Like 'emmyself, grilled, as well as anything; they've such plump little breasts.Pull on, Joe."
Joe made for the spit, coming in so quickly with a few quiet butvigorous strokes that Sandy was able to get in a pot and a flying shot,accounting for no fewer than five.
"I vote," exclaimed that youth, when they had bagged the plover, "thatwe pull into the mouth of 'Skeeter Crick, tie up to the bank, an' stalkthe crick for a mile or so; then we can cross over to the scrub by theold tree. We'll chance to get a pigeon or two, or I'm mistaken. P'r'apswe'll have better luck with the ducks on our way back. Never saw 'em soscarce on the Crocodile before."
Accordingly, they landed a hundred yards or so up the creek, assailedthe contents of the tucker bag, and then proceeded to skirt the rightbank, on the look out for duck. A single bird, a very fine drake, fellto Joe's gun near the fallen log which bridged the narrow stream. Thiscrossed, the boys entered into a belt of virgin scrub that extended backa mile or so from Crocodile Creek, abutting Mosquito Creek along itsbreadth.
"We'd bes' separate, Joe," said Sandy, when they had gone a littledistance into the jungle. "You keep on a few hundred yards, and thenbear on the left towards the Crocodile. I'll make straight for therefrom here. It'll be hard if we don't account for a bird or two."
The scrub was very thick and interwoven in places. It contained a numberof native fig trees of great height and spread. These trees were infruit, therefore there was a better chance of getting pigeon, somevarieties of which are exceedingly fond of the native fig.
The umbrageous trees formed a lofty canopy whose cool shades were veryagreeable after a couple of hours on the water under a January sun. Thelawyer and other cane vines hung from the great trees in long festoons,varying in thickness from ropes no thicker than one's little finger tothe great cables extending downward from the huge limbs of the figtrees. Besides these growths were scrub bushes, many of which werecovered with blossom, and still others with berries, blue and red. Therewere also spaces of bare ground, occupied only by giant fig and othercolumnar trees. These, by natural formation, made arched aisles, whoseloftiness, lights, distances, and vistas constituted a grandeur, andeven splendour, unapproached by any of the great cathedrals of earth.These, however ancient, are but things of yesterday when compared withnature's porticoes, cloisters, and altar spaces.
The boys, however, took little heed of these things. They were in thescrub neither for architectural nor devotional purposes. Pigeons andother scrub game alone had any attractions for them.
After separating they walked warily, listening with both ears andscanning with both eyes. Sounds there were in abundance. Theubiquitous minah, as the noisy and saucy soldier-bird is called, is aswidespread as the gum tree itself. The thrush, though smaller than itsEnglish namesake, and with a differing note, is equally melodious. Thenpeculiar to scrub country are the musically metallic notes of the prettybut exceedingly coy bell-bird.
Henry Kendal, the greatest of Australian nature poets, has limned it insong. Here is a stanza--
"The silver-voiced bell-birds, the darlings of daytime, They sing in September their songs of the Maytime. When shadows wax strong and the thunder-bolts hurtle, They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle; They start up like fairies that follow fair weather, And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden Are the
green and the purple, the blue and the golden."
There is also the merry Coachman, who cracks his whip with his beak, soto speak, in such verisimilitude that the wandering new chum looks roundeagerly for a coach-team.
Added to these are the soft coo-coo of the doves and the stronger andbooming note of the pigeon tribe. And beyond all these, the calls,chirpings, and chatterings of scores of feathered favourites. They whocall the Australian bush songless libel it.
The pigeon has a coo that is as monotonous and far-reaching as a foghorn. For this sound the boys are now cocking their ears. Presentlythe loved note reaches Sandy's ears: coo--coo--coo!
"A wonga for a dollar, and where's one is sure to be another."
To locate a pigeon by its note is often a most difficult thing in thescrub. It may be on the tree under which one happens to be standing, orhundreds of yards away. To run down a pigeon by its note is a work thatneeds experience and patience.
Sandy listened intently, mind as well as ears working. "Not high up,that's certain. Seems to be right behind me. Bet tuppence he's on thatwhite cedar," said the boy to himself after a further scrutiny in thesupposed direction. Away in the locality indicated, distant a hundredyards or so, rising above a clump of myrtles, was a white cedar tree,its shining yellow berries revealing its presence as seen through thetree boles and shrubs.
Stealthily moving through the undergrowth and timber, the lad cautiouslyadvanced towards the cedar. Gaining the myrtle cluster, he was therebyscreened to some extent even when viewed from above. Just then a coogave him the location. Moving to the edge of the saplings, he now got afair view of the tree beyond; and there, on a lateral limb, distant fromhim not more than thirty-five yards, sat a glorious wonga-wonga, thefinest species of Australian pigeon, not to be beaten for table purposesthroughout the wide world. The specimen before Sandy was a male bird asbig as three ordinary pigeons.
"That fellow's calling his mate, and she's not far off, by the way he'snoddin' his head," surmised the youth. "Shall I pot him, or wait for hismate and cop 'em both?"
The question was soon settled, for suddenly, and with a great whirr, thehen rose from the ground, or rather, tiny water pool: for she had beendrinking and bathing and admiring her reflected image in the glassywater. Her return, alas! is the signal of death, for what time shealighted on the bough at her spouse's side, the remorseless hunter, withhasty but true aim, brought both fluttering to the ground.
Their necks are wrung and they are bagged instanter, with a laconic butsatisfied grunt from the sportsman: "Not so bad."
At this moment a double shot broke on Sandy's ears. This was immediatelyfollowed by a deep, mellow sound that formed the common signal of thepals. Putting his two hands with hollowed palms together, conch-shellfashion, the boy raised them to his lips and blew a prolonged andresonant note followed by three short notes staccato, which conveyed tothe other's ears the answer: "Heard you, am coming."
"Joe wants me for something. Got into a covey of bronze-wings, or maybea mob o' flocks," muttered the lad as he made in the direction of thesound.
He soon espied his mate at the butt of an enormous fig tree, andsignalled his advent. The moment Joe perceived Sandy he stooped downand picked up a couple of large black-looking birds, and waved themexcitedly.
"My word! ole Joe's run into a flock of turkeys. Hurrah! here's luck."
Yes, Joe had been fortunate enough to "rise" a fine lot of tallagalla,to call them by their native name, better known as scrub turkey.
Unlike the so-called turkey of the plains--which, indeed, is not a trueturkey, but a bustard--the scrub turkey is true to its title, beingseldom or never seen out of thickly wooded country. Its breeding homeis a huge mound raised by scratching together the dry leaves and bits ofrotten bark and wood. On the top of this elevation of debris the eggsare laid, some scores of them, and barely covered. As the birds use thesame spot for many years, the nests become in time mounds of vastdimensions. Turkey nest, as it is called, becomes in time a rich compostof leaf-mould, and is eagerly sought for garden purposes.
The bird itself is stronger in the legs than in the wings. Unlessstartled and rushed, it will not rise, but scuttles through theundergrowth with inconceivable speed, and he is a fortunate man who isable to draw a bead as it darts through the thousand obstacles of thescrub. Hence the necessity of a good dog to rush the birds pell-melland startle them into immediate flight, when they almost invariably seekrefuge in the trees near by.
Joe, fortunately, heard the drumming and clucking of a turkey gobblerbefore he was seen of them. Moving with intense caution through thebush, which was very thick at this spot, he saw at last through theintervening leaves, on a patch of bare ground, scratching among thedecayed vegetable matter for grubs, a flock of turkeys containing ascore or more.
They were exceedingly active, running hither and thither; many of them,just at the pullet stage, indulging in mimic warfare. The elder oneswere busily engaged grubbing. Joe could easily have shot two or three ofthem as he stood an unseen watcher. There was a better way than that,however. Once "tree" them, and one could leisurely pick his birds. Howare they to be got into the trees? He'll be his own dog.
Bursting out from his cover with a hair-raising and blood-curdling yell,making at the same time a high jump and wildly waving his arms, thestalker rushed into the midst of the mob, catching, indeed, a young oneby the leg, and generally making such a hullabaloo as to scare them intoinstant flight.
It is a peculiarity of this bird, like that of its American brother,when once "treed," to remain there. Wanton shooters, taking advantageof this trait, will often shoot a flock right out.
The birds put up by Joe, with one or two exceptions, flew into the treessurrounding them. The lad's first act was to slip a piece of stringround the captured turkey's legs and swing it from a tree limb. Thisdone, he took a couple of pot shots, bringing down a young gobbler eachtime. Having made sure of a brace, he signalled to his mate, asdescribed.
The shooters, with true sporting instinct, refrained both from wantondestruction and from shooting at the hens. They picked out half a dozenof the biggest males, leaving the others on their perches.
Needless to say, the boys were greatly pleased with their success in thescrub. On their way home good fortune followed them. Though they didnot sight the mob of woods, they surprised a pair, which they promptlysecured. Though the bag could not be considered a big one for thosedays, it was a good one for variety.
Greatly to Mrs. M'Intyre's delight, the boys reached home a little afterthree o'clock. During their absence of five hours they accounted forthe following game: one black duck, two wood-duck, three teal, fivespur-wing plover, six fat turkey gobblers, two plump pigeon, and thecaptured turkey.
"You are dear, good boys," was Mrs. M'Intyre's comment as the game layside by side on the bench at the rear of the kitchen. "What fine birds!what a lovely variety!"
Mrs. Mac., while not an epicure, was a noted housewife, and dispensedhospitality in such a whole-hearted fashion and in such an acceptablemanner that her dinners were things to be remembered with delight.
"Go into the kitchen, boys, and get a snack: you'll be dying forsomething to eat. After you've finished you can bear a hand with theplucking and cleaning, as Denny's the only one about. Come here, AhFat! What do you think of the birds, Ah Fat?"
"Dem welly good, missee."
"Yes, they'll do very well. The boys'll clean them for you--at leastthe ones we're using to-night. We'll hang the rest. Let me see! theyhad better clean the pigeons and plover first. You can put them on tostew: we'll turn them into a game pie. Grill the teal, and roast a pairof ducks and two gobblers."
"Allee lita, missee; I do 'em. That all? I mos go back an' look afterpuddens."
Denny and the boys set to work on the fowl, and were soon feathers anddown from head to foot.
"Retreating one moment and advancing the following,uttering war-cries."--_See p._ 219.]
"T
ell me, Joe, me bhoy, did ye or Sahndy here shute the most b-i-rr-ds?"
"Honours are easy, Denny."
"Begorra! phwat th' divvil's thot?"
"It means that each shot an equal quantity."
"An e-qu-a-al quantitee! Be jabers, wheres did ye put 'em?"
"Put what?"
"Whoi, th' pair iv e-qu-a-al quan---- Be Saint Michael, it's a new sortiv a b-i-rr-d ye've shuted!"
Denny was not so dense as he pretended to be.
"You're a downy cove, Denny," laughed Joe, who caught a twinkle in theyoung Irishman's eye.
"That's true for ye, Joe," retorted the wit, surveying himself; "but,bhoys, why doan't ye's take me wid youse? Sure an' it's a foine shot Oiam."
"That's news, Denny. Didn't know you'd ever let off a gun."
"Manny an' manny's th' wan Oi've seen me farther bang off, annyways.Did youse never hear tell iv me farther's shutin'? Shure he was asealabrity in Killarney!"
"Never. Tell us."
"Well, la-ads, wan da' he was rowin' th' Dook iv Dublhin, who was ag-rr-a-at sport, on th' woild la-a-kes iv Killarney. They was lukin'for dooks."
"Set a duke to catch a 'dook,' eh, Denny?"
"Be aisy, Marsther Joe. It's th' flyin' dooks Oi'me dascribin'. Bejabers! farther rowed about a tousan' moile, and th' only dook th'g-rr-a-at mahn shuted was a gull, though they was there in g-rr-a-atmobs."
"The gulls or the ducks, Denny?"
"If you'd 'a' bin there they wud 'a' bin two gulls, annyhow, me mahn."
"Good for you, Denny. Let him finish, Joe."
"Well, shure, saays farther at last, ses he, 'If y're Riall Hoiness wudlet me have wan shot, maybe Oi'd bring ye luck.' An' he did it. Sofarther, he gits th' Dook's big gun, an' th' Dook he tuk th' pathles,an' bynby they see a mob iv dooks all in a loine acrost th' boat's bows,saalin' for all th' warld loike th' owld loin-iv-batthle ships in th'pictures, stim an' starn.
"'Howld aisy,' saays farther, ses 'e, whin they got abreast thim fowls.With that he pinted th' gun at th' la-adin' dook, an owld dr-a-ake beth' same token--pulled th' thrigger an' let her off. Wud ye bela-aveme, so quick was he that before all th' shot had got out iv th' way-ponhe'd got her down to th' tail-most birr-d, an' betune you an' me an'little Garr-ge Washintong in th' Bible, ivry sowl iv thim dooks layspaachless dead upon th' wather. Now thin, phwat div ye think iv thatf'r shutin', ye gosoons?"
"Think of it, Denny," said Maggie, who had been standing at the kitchendoor, unobserved of the boys, an amused listener. "Why, you'll bewriting a book one day that will put the Kybosh on Baron Munchausen."
"Well, if iver Oi does, Miss Maggie," replied the incorrigible Irishboy, "Oi'll pit y'reself in as th' laaden acthress--Oi mane th'herr-owyne."
"Maggie!"
"Coming, mother."
