All this was very sad, and to avoid hearing any further
unpleasantness, Bryden began to tell them about America. And they
sat round listening to him; but all the talking was on his side;
he wearied of it; and looking round the group he recognised a
ragged hunchback with grey hair; twenty years ago he was a young
hunchback, and, turning to him, Bryden asked him if he were doing
well with his five acres.
"Ah, not much. This has been a bad season. The potatoes failed;
they were watery--there is no diet in them."
These peasants were all agreed that they could make nothing out of
their farms. Their regret was that they had not gone to America
when they were young; and after striving to take an interest in
the fact that O'Connor had lost a mare and foal worth forty pounds
Bryden began to wish himself back in the slum. And when they left
the house he wondered if every evening would be like the present
one. Mike piled fresh sods on the fire, and he hoped it would show
enough light in the loft for Bryden to undress himself by.
The cackling of some geese in the road kept him awake, and the
loneliness of the country seemed to penetrate to his bones, and to
freeze the marrow in them. There was a bat in the loft--a dog
howled in the distance--and then he drew the clothes over his
head. Never had he been so unhappy, and the sound of Mike
breathing by his wife's side in the kitchen added to his nervous
terror. Then he dozed a little; and lying on his back he dreamed
he was awake, and the men he had seen sitting round the fireside
that evening seemed to him like spectres come out of some unknown
region of morass and reedy tarn.
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