_Phil._ Depind on it, it’s all lies, Mrs. Rooney, says I, ma’am. No, but _you_ lie, flourishing Phil, says she. With that every McBride to a man, rises from the table, catching up chairs and stools and toomblers and jugs to revenge Honor and me. Not for your life, boys, don’t _let-drive_ ne’er a one of yees, says I--she’s a woman, and a widow woman, and only a _scould_ from her birth: so they held their hands; but she giving tongue bitter, ‘twas hard for flesh and blood to stand it. Now, for the love of heaven and me, sit down all, and be _quite_ as lambs, and finish your poonch like gentlemen, sir, says I: so saying, I _tuk_ Mrs. Rooney up in my arms tenderly, as I would a bould child--she screeching and screeching like mad:--whereupon her jock caught on the chair, pocket-hole or something, and give one rent from head to _fut_--and that was the tattering of the jock. So we got her to the door, and there she spying her son by ill-luck in the street, directly stretches out her’ arms, and kicking my shins, plase your honour, till I could not hold her, “Murder! Randal Rooney,” cries she, “and will you see your own mother murdered?” _Randal._ Them were the very words, I acknowledge, she used, which put me past my rason, no doubt. _Phil._ Then Randal Rooney, being past his rason, turns to all them Roonies that were _in no condition._ _Mr. Carv._ That were, what we in English would call _drunk_, I presume? _Randal._ Something very near it, plase your honour. _Phil._ Sitting on the bench outside the door they were, when Randal came up. “Up, Roonies, and at ‘em!” cried he; and up, to be sure, they flew, shillelahs and all, like lightning, daling blows on all of us McBrides: but I never lifted a hand; and Randal, I’ll do him justice, avoided to lift a hand against me. _Randal._ And while I live I’ll never forget _that_ hour, nor _this_ hour, Phil, and all your generous construction. _Catty._ (_aside_) Why then it almost softens me; but I won’t be made a fool on. _Mr. Carv._ (_who has been re-considering the examinations_) It appears to me that you, Mr. Philip McBride, did, as the law allows, only _lay hands softly_ upon complainant, Catherine Rooney; and the Rooneys, as it appears, struck, and did strike, the first blow. _Randal._ I can’t deny, plase your honour, we did. _Mr. Carv._ (_tearing the examinations_) Then, gentlemen--you Roonies--_beaten men_, I cannot possibly take your examinations. [_When the examinations are torn, the McBRIDES all bow and thank his honour._ _Mr. Carv._ Beaten men! depart in peace. _The ROONIES sigh and groan, and after turning their hats several times, bow, walk a few steps away, return, and seem loath to depart. CATTY springs forward, holding up her hands joined in a supplicating attitude to Mr. CARVER._ _Randal._ If your honour would be plasing to let her spake now, or she’d burst, may be. _Mr. Carv._ Speak now, woman, and ever after hold your tongue.