"Eh, but this is bad news!" says old Scully, evidently terrified and disheartened by his niece's words. "Where will it all end? Come in, Misther Rodney: let me look at ye, boy. No, not a word out of ye now till ye taste something. 'Tis in bits ye are; an' a good coat it was this mornin'. There's the whiskey, Mona, agra, an' there's the wather. Oh! the black villain! Let me examine ye, me son. Why, there's blood on ye! Oh! the murthering thief!",
She would have gone to him then, and tried to console him in her own pretty fashion, but he motions her to stay where she is.,
"The shooting there is capital," says his mother, turning a deaf ear to his muttered interruption, "and I don't believe there is anything in Ireland, not even birds.".
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