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Updated: May 31, 2025
When I told him it was fairies he looked like a man that wanted to curse and didn't rightly know how. But sure the English is all queer, and the time you'd think you have them pleased is the very time they'd be most vexed with you." It was Tuesday, a Tuesday early in October, Dr. Lovaway finished his breakfast quietly, conscious that he had a long morning before him and nothing particular to do.
Flanagan approached them from behind; leaning across Lovaway's shoulders, he whispered in his ear: "There's not about the place there's not within the four seas of Ireland, one that has as much knowledge of fairies and all belonging to them as that old woman." "Fairies!" said Lovaway. "Did you say Surely you didn't say fairies?"
Lovaway was not quite sure about the proper place to which to send a report about the conduct of a sergeant of the Irish Police. "To the proper authorities," he concluded feebly. "There, there," said the sergeant, soothingly, "we'll say no more about the matter. I wouldn't like you to be vexed, doctor." But Dr. Lovaway, having once begun to speak his mind, was not inclined to stop.
Constable Malone pushed at the back of the car. Dr. Lovaway, uncomfortable and rather nervous, wanted to get down and wade too. But the sergeant would not hear of this. "Let you sit still," he said. "The water's over the tops of my boots, so it is, and where's the use of you getting a wetting that might be the death of you?" "Is it much farther?" asked Lovaway. The sergeant considered the matter.
"I suppose now," said the sergeant, "that the country you come from is a lot different from this." He had taken his seat again on the car after leading the mare up the river. He spoke in a cheery, conversational tone. Dr. Lovaway thought of Manchester and the surrounding district, thought of trams, trains, and paved streets. "It is different," he said, "very different indeed."
Constable Malone, under orders from the sergeant, went to the priest's house and borrowed a waterproof rug. Johnny Conerney, the butcher, appeared at the last moment with a sou'wester which he put on the doctor's head and tied under his chin. It would not be the fault of the people of Dunailin, if Lovaway, with his weak lungs, "died on them."
"It might be a mile and a bit," he said, "from where we are this minute." The mile was certainly an Irish mile, and Dr. Lovaway began to think that there were some things in England, miles for instance, which are better managed than they are in Ireland. "The bit" which followed the mile belonged to a system of measurement even more generous than Irish miles and acres.
Well, what must be, must be, if it's the will of God, and if it's before me it may as well be now as any other time." "You see the way he is," said the sergeant. "And I have the papers here already to be signed." Dr. Lovaway saw, or believed he saw, exactly how things were. The boy was evidently of weak mind. There was little sign of actual lunacy, no sign at all of violence about him. Mrs.
"The sergeant bid me say that he'd have Patsy Doolan's car engaged for you, and that him and me would go with you so that you wouldn't have any trouble more than the trouble of going to Ballygran, which is an out-of-the-way place sure enough, and it's a terrible day." "Is the man violent?" asked Dr. Lovaway. By way of reply Constable Malone gave a short account of the man's position in life.
The last half of the letter was painfully disconcerting. Two whole pages were devoted to an explanation of the writer's wish to spend some time in the west of Ireland. Theophilus Lovaway had managed, in the middle of his professional reading, to study the literature of the Irish Renaissance. He had fallen deeply in love with the spirit of the Celtic peasantry.
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