I don't know now what evil
genius prompted me to take him in."
"Evil genius, indeed!" retorted Polly. "You did it because you're a
dear, good, kind-hearted man."
"Think so, wifey? I'm inclined to put it down to sheer dislike of
botheration--Irish inertia . . . the curse of our race."
"Yes, yes, I knoo you'd be wantin' to get rid o' me, now you're goin' up
in the world," was Long Jim's answer when Polly broached her scheme for
his benefit. "Well, no, I won't say anythin' against you, Mrs. Mahony;
you've treated me square enough. But doc., 'e's always thought 'imself a
sight above one, an' when 'e does, 'e lets you feel it."
This was more than Polly could brook. "And sighing and groaning as you
have done to get home, Jim! You're a silly, ungrateful old man, even to
hint at such a thing."
"Poor old fellow, he's grumbled so long now, that he's forgotten how to
do anything else," she afterwards made allowance for him. And added,
pierced by a sudden doubt: "I hope his wife will still be used to it, or
. . . or else . . ."
And now the last day in the old house was come. The furniture, stacked
in the yard, awaited the dray that was to transport it. Hardly worth
carrying with one, thought Mahony, when he saw the few poor sticks
exposed to the searching sunlight. Pipe in mouth he mooned about,
feeling chiefly amazed that he could have put up, for so long, with the
miserable little hut which his house, stripped of its trimmings, proved
to be.
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