“Pins,” said Mary Doody, reflecting deeply. She turned and sought in unsavoury boxes which held a stock as varied, if not so numerous, as that of Mr. Grogan. The porter-drinkers became immensely interested. Some of the women came nearer and stared at the strangers, and one or two, catching Norah’s eye, smiled a greeting. Mary Doody heaved her mighty form up from the box over which she had been crouching. “I had some, wanst,” she said. “But ’tis gone they are, or may be them gerrls has them taken. Wouldn’t anything else do for you, dear?” “No, thank you,” Norah said, hastily. She turned to go, pursued by Mrs. Doody, who suddenly became interested in the case. “Did you try Peter Grogan?” she asked. “He have a little shop up yonder.” Norah admitted having tried and failed. “My, my!” said Mary Doody. “’Tis puttin’ a bad direction on a counthry when you can’t buy a paper of pins in it, isn’t it, dear?” Norah laughed. “I’m sorry you haven’t got them,” she said. “No. There’s no call for them here, dear. We do be using buttons,” said Mary Doody, blandly. Under cover of this broadside Norah made a confused exit, to find Jim and Wally helpless with laughter without. “Never did I see anyone taught her place so beautifully!” said Jim, ecstatically. “That will teach you to be tidy, young Norah!” “Buttons!” said Norah, laughing. “I’d like to see Mary Doody shorten a skirt with the aid of buttons. Anyhow, I’ve got to do it without the aid of pins, that’s evident. Come home, you unsympathetic frivollers!” It was two days later, that, coming in late and ravenously hungry after a long tramp across the bog, the Lintons made a hurried toilet and a still more hurried descent to the dining-room. Dinner had been kept waiting for them, and they applied themselves to it with an energy born of a long day in the open air and a sandwich lunch. It was when the first edge of appetite had been taken off, and they were toying with a mammoth apple-pie, that Mrs. Moroney bore down upon them. “I’m afraid we were very late, Mrs. Moroney,” said Mr. Linton. “Ah, ’tis no matter,” said the lady of the house, waving away the suggestion. “In the heighth of the season there’s many a one roaring for dinner, and it ten o’clock at night. Did you enjoy your dinner, now?” “We did, indeed,” said Mr. Linton; “it was most excellent pork——” He stopped, catching Jim’s eye, into which had come a sudden light of comprehension. “Pork!” said Jim faintly. “Yes, it _was_ pork. Mrs. Moroney, . . . I wonder . . . did you . . . ?” “Don’t tell me there was anything wrong with it,” said Mrs. Moroney, aflame in the defence of the pork. “I never see better pigs than them ones of Peter Grogan’s; and he after killing them only last Tuesday!” CHAPTER X THE ROCK OF DOON