ce before they sweep across the
Atlantic. Now and then a boat comes to grief even on the short voyage
made for the purpose of cutting wrack from the shelves of the black-reef
that lies a bit off the shore. So, on the whole, the inhabitants of
Laraghmena may be considered to pay dearly for their supplies of fish
and seaweed; and we at Lisconnel, though we live beyond reach of such
things, and have few substitutes for them, are not far wrong in speaking
of the people up there as "rael poor entirely."

Yet they themselves would not by any means have it supposed that they
"think bad," as they call it, of their fortunes and habitation. On the
contrary, whatever their private opinion may be, they are disposed to
uphold the merits of the place in public, and to prove themselves sudden
and quick in resentment of any outsiders' disparaging criticism. The
most deadly insult that can be offered to a Laraghmenian as such, is an
allusion to the libellous report which has somehow become current to the
effect that his Riverence at Drumroe, the nearest parish, always sends
over a special messenger on Saturday night to remind them of the
morrow's Mass; the innuendo being that Laraghmena's out-of-the-way
situation, and general want of culture, preclude its inhabitants from
knowing the day of the week. This is why an innocent-seeming remark such
as, "Well, boys, it's Tuesday this mornin'," has been known to set
blackthorns whirling wildly.

Something of the sort occurred at Sallenmore fair, one day in last
September, when Matt Doyne and Andy Sheridan from Lisconnel fell in with
their acquaintances, Larry Sullivan and Felix Morrough, from Laraghmena.
After they had fought as long as seemed good to them, they exchanged
what news they had. The most important piece was that Larry and Felix
were presently setting off to the States. They were rather urgent in
advising the other two lads to join their party; but Andy said that
everything would go to sticks at home if he was out of it, and Matt
averred that his mother would be of the opinion she was lost and kilt
entirely, if he so much as mentioned any such an idea. "And herself wid
your brother Terence at home to be keepin' her company," objected Felix.
"Sure there's me mother wid ne'er another crathur in the world, you may
say, but meself, and she's never done this last six months persuadin' me
to go along."

"Then it's the quare woman she must be, bedad," said Matt, "unless it's
yourself's