“Don't I, indeed?” said Mrs. Rooney, huffed at having her word doubted, as she thought. “I tell you he never _was_ at home last night, and maybe it's yourself was helping him, Micky Lavery, to keep his bad coorses--the slingein' dirty blackguard that he is.”
Micky Lavery set up a shout of laughter, which increased the ire of Mrs. Rooney, who would have passed on in dignified silence but that Micky held her fast, and when he recovered breath enough to speak, he proceeded to tell her about Andy's marriage, but in such a disjointed way, that it was some time before Mrs. Rooney could comprehend him--for his interjectional laughter at the capital joke it was, that she should be the last to know it, and that he should have the luck to tell it, sometimes broke the thread of his story--and then his collateral observations so disfigured the tale, that its incomprehensibility became very much increased, until at last Mrs. Rooney was driven to push him by direct questions.
“For the tendher mercy, Micky Lavery, make me sinsible, and don't disthract me--is the boy married?”
“Gev him half his property, I tell you, and he'll have all when the owld man's dead.”
“Oh, more power to you, Andy!” cried his mother in delight: “it's you that _is_ the boy, and the best child that ever was! Half his property, you tell me, _Misther_ Lavery?” added she, getting distant and polite the moment she found herself mother to a rich man, and curtailing her familiarity with a poor one like Lavery.
“Yes, _ma'am_,” said Lavery, touching his hat, “and the whole of it when the owld man dies.”
“Then indeed I wish him a happy relase!” [Footnote: A “happy release” is the Irish phrase for departing this life] said Mrs. Rooney, piously--“not that I owe the man any spite--but sure he'd be no loss--and it's a good wish to any one, sure, to wish them in heaven. Good mornin', Misther Lavery,” said Mrs. Rooney, with a patronising smile, and “going the road with a dignified air.”
Mick Lavery looked after her with mingled wonder and indignation. “Bad luck to you, you owld sthrap!” he muttered between his teeth. “How consaited you are, all of a sudden--by Jakers, I'm sorry I towld you--cock you up, indeed--put a beggar on horseback to be sure--humph!--the devil cut the tongue out o' me if ever I give any one good news again. I've a mind to turn back and tell Tim Dooling his horse is in the pound.”