you do a thing, bad as it is or good as it may be, your mind is still aisy, bekase—” he turned from the window to look at Darby, but the lad was gone out into the moonlight, and was shrinkin’ an’ cringin’ up toward the bog, as though he were going to meet and talk with the ghost of a man he’d murdhered. ’Twas a harsher an’ angrier woice than that of any ghost that came out of a great flopping and splashin’ in the bog.
Father Cassidy sat with his feet dhrawn up on Terror, and the horse was half sunk in the mire. At times he urged Terror over to the bank, an’ just as the baste was raising to step out, with a snort, it’d whirl back agin.
He’d thry another side, but spur as he might, and whip as he would, the horse’d turn shivering back to the middle of the bog.
“Is that you, Darby O’Gill, you vagebone?” cried his Riverence. “Help me out of this to the dhry land so as I can take the life of you!” he cried.
“What right has anyone to go trespassin’ in my bog, mussing it all up an’ spiling it?” says Darby, purtendin’ not to raycognise the priest; “I keep it private for my ducks and geese, and I’ll have the law
