We and the World, Part II | Page 8

bottle into her cup. Whether this drew the watchman's
attention in an unusual degree, of course I do not know, but he stopped
to say, "Good-evening, Biddy."
"Good-evening to ye, me dear, and a nasty damp evening it is."
"You're taking something to keep the damp out, I see, missus."
"I am, dear; but it's not for a foine milithrary-looking man like yourself
to be having the laugh at a poor old craythur with nothin' but the wind
and weather in her bones."
"The wind and weather get into my bones, I can tell you," said the
watchman; "and I begin my work in the fog just when you're getting
out of it."
"And that's thrue, worse luck. Take a dhrop of coffee, allanna, before I
lave ye."
"No, thank ye, missus; I've just had my supper."
"And would that privint ye from takin' the cup I'd be offering ye, wid a
taste of somethin' in it against the damps, barrin' the bottle was empty?"

"Well, I'm not particular--as you are so pressing. Thank ye, mum;
here's your good health."
I heard the watchman say this, though at the moment I dared not peep,
and then I heard him cough.
"My sakes, Biddy, you make your--coffee--strong."
"Strong, darlin'? It's pure, ye mane. It's the rale craythur, that, and
bedad! there's a dhrop or two left that's not worth the removing, and
we'll share it anyhow. Here's to them that's far--r away."
"Thank you, thank you, woman."
"Thim that's near, and thim that's far away!" said Biddy, improving
upon her toast.
There was a pause. I could hear the old woman packing up her traps,
and then the man (upon whom the coffee and whisky seemed to
produce a roughening rather than a soothing effect) said coarsely,
"You're a rum lot, you Irish!"
"We are, dear," replied Biddy, blandly; "and that's why we'd be comin'
all the way to Lancashire for the improvement of our manners." And
she threw the sacking round her neck, and lifted the handles of her
barrow.
"Good-night, me darlin'!" said she, raising her voice as she moved off.
"We'll meet again, GOD willing."
"Safe enough, unless you tumble into the dock," replied the watchman.
"Go steady, missus. I hope you'll get safe home with that barra o'
yours."
"GOD send all safe home that's far from it!" shouted Biddy, in tones
that rose above the rumbling of the wheel and the shuffling of her
shoes.
"Haw! haw!" laughed the watchman, and with increased brutalness in

his voice he reiterated, "You're a rum lot, Biddy! and free of most
things, blessings and all."
I was not surprised that the sound of the wheel and the shoes ceased
suddenly. Biddy had set down her barrow to retort. But it was with
deep gratitude that I found her postpone her own wrath to my safety,
and content herself with making her enemy "a prisint of the contimpt of
a rogue."
"And what would I be doing but blessing ye?" she cried, in a voice of
such dramatic variety as only quick wits and warm feelings can give, it
was so full at once of suppressed rage, humorous triumph,
contemptuous irony, and infinite tenderness. And I need hardly say that
it was raised to a ringing pitch that would have reached my ears had
they been buried under twenty tarpaulins, "GOD bless ye for ivermore!
Good luck to ye! fine weather to ye! health and strength to ye! May the
knaves that would harm ye be made fools for your benefit, and may
niver worse luck light on one hair of your head than the best blessings
of Biddy Macartney!"
Something peculiar in the sound of Biddy's retreating movements made
me risk another glance from an angle of the tarpaulin.
And upon my honour it is strictly true that I saw the old Irish woman
drive her barrow down the dock till she passed out of sight, and that she
went neither walking nor running, but dancing; and a good high
stepping dance too, that showed her stockings, and shook the
handkerchief on her head. And when she reached the end of the wharf
she snapped her fingers in the air.
Then I drew my head back, and I could hear the watchman guffaw as if
he would have split his sides. And even after he began to tramp up and
down I could hear him still chuckling as he paced by.
And if I did not hear Biddy chuckle, it was perhaps because the joke on
her side lay deeper down.
CHAPTER III.

"The mariners shout, The ships swing about. The yards are all hoisted,
The sails flutter out." The Saga of King Olaf.
The docks were very quiet now. Only a few footfalls broke the silence,
and the water sobbed a