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Updated: June 4, 2025
But she put out her hand to take the little drawing which Aaron handed to her. "Because that's one I've planned for our bit of a new branch from Moreau up to Lake George. I guess Miss Susan knows something about bridges." "I guess I don't," said Susan "only that they oughtn't to tumble down when the frost comes." "Ha, ha, ha; no more they ought. I'll tell McEvoy that."
Here they merely found Abraham, the cripple, harmlessly employed in superintending the boiling of some lumpers, and Andy McEvoy in the other cabin, sitting on his bed; not a drop of potheen not a grain of malt not a utensil used in distillation was found, and they had to return foiled and beaten.
At last he determined to speak to his companion, and after considering for some time what he should say to him, he asked him what his name was; but Thady had spoken in his usual language, and the old man, looking up, answered that he had no English. "What's your name?" asked Thady, in Irish. "Andy McEvoy." "And is this cabin your own?" "Yes." "And who's your landlord?"
Jack McEvoy, one of Peter's men, climbed into the cart sheepishly enough and drove off. Once more the neighbours pressed round the homeless old pair, quarrelling for the honour of harbouring them. "It's coming along wid me they are," cried one, "aren't yez now? sure of course they are. Isn't mine the biggest house anywhere in Donoughmor?" "Ah, but it's that far off," argued another.
Clancy did not answer, and McEvoy, more and more anxious to retrieve his former error, waxed eloquent on the subject of Roseen, her beauty, her wealth, and the bounties she lavished all round her. "Look at the way she whipped off your father and mother there," he remarked at last, "and the comfort she keeps them in!
And the eggs I had for the fast-day for myself, didn't That One" I knew this to indicate Miss McEvoy "ax an omelette from me when she seen she had no more to get!" "Are they out of the dining-room?" broke in Robert. "Faith, they are. 'Twas no good for them to stay in it! That One's lying up on the sofa in the dhrawing-room like any owld dog, and the Dane and Mrs.
This was old Joe McEvoy himself, who, out of the mouth of a steep, sandy boreen, sprang up suddenly, like a jack-fn-the-box-one of the shock-wigged, saturnine-complexioned pattern. But no jack-in-the-box could have looked so flurriedly distracted, or have muttered to itself such queer execrations as he did, hobbling along.
The best men America has produced were reared at home, and did chores out of school hours. When I was expelled from school by the Yankees, Mr. McEvoy, the leading Irish politician, called me aside and said: "Whisper, you just hang round until next election, and we'll turn out the Yankee managers, and put you in the school again."
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