“Good-evening to ye, me dear, and a nasty damp evening it is.”

“You’re taking something to keep the damp out, I see, missus.”

“I am, dear; but it’s not for a foine milithrary-looking man like yourself to be having the laugh at a poor old craythur with nothin’ but the wind and weather in her bones.”

“The wind and weather get into my bones, I can tell you,” said the watchman; “and I begin my work in the fog just when you’re getting out of it.”

“And that’s thrue, worse luck.  Take a dhrop of coffee, allanna, before I lave ye.”

“No, thank ye, missus; I’ve just had my supper.”

“And would that privint ye from takin’ the cup I’d be offering ye, wid a taste of somethin’ in it against the damps, barrin’ the bottle was empty?”

“Well, I’m not particular—­as you are so pressing.  Thank ye, mum; here’s your good health.”

I heard the watchman say this, though at the moment I dared not peep, and then I heard him cough.

“My sakes, Biddy, you make your—­coffee—­strong.”

“Strong, darlin’?  It’s pure, ye mane.  It’s the rale craythur, that, and bedad! there’s a dhrop or two left that’s not worth the removing, and we’ll share it anyhow.  Here’s to them that’s far—­r away.”

“Thank you, thank you, woman.”

“Thim that’s near, and thim that’s far away!” said Biddy, improving upon her toast.

There was a pause.  I could hear the old woman packing up her traps, and then the man (upon whom the coffee and whisky seemed to produce a roughening rather than a soothing effect) said coarsely, “You’re a rum lot, you Irish!”

“We are, dear,” replied Biddy, blandly; “and that’s why we’d be comin’ all the way to Lancashire for the improvement of our manners.”  And she threw the sacking round her neck, and lifted the handles of her barrow.

“Good-night, me darlin’!” said she, raising her voice as she moved off. “We’ll meet again, GOD willing.”

“Safe enough, unless you tumble into the dock,” replied the watchman.  “Go steady, missus.  I hope you’ll get safe home with that barra o’ yours.”

“GOD send all safe home that’s far from it!” shouted Biddy, in tones that rose above the rumbling of the wheel and the shuffling of her shoes.

“Haw! haw!” laughed the watchman, and with increased brutalness in his voice he reiterated, “You’re a rum lot, Biddy! and free of most things, blessings and all.”

I was not surprised that the sound of the wheel and the shoes ceased suddenly.  Biddy had set down her barrow to retort.  But it was with deep gratitude that I found her postpone her own wrath to my safety, and content herself with making her enemy “a prisint of the contimpt of a rogue.”