“Gypsies,” whispered Mildred.
“A tinker, I think,” Simon said. “They’ve been travelling over Ireland like this since the beginning of time.”
The older man, who was seated in a folding canvas chair — undoubtedly a recent addition to the tinker’s inventory of household goods — waved his hand toward the pot and said to the boy, “What’s it now?”
The boy pulled a large thermometer from the liquid.
“Sixty-three.”
The older man turned to the adolescent girls.
“Put it in.”
The two girls each picked up a small sack and dumped its contents into the mixture while the boy stirred with a long wooden stick.
“Is that... potheen?” Mildred asked Simon in a hushed voice.
“It must be. The most potent stuff this side of hell-fire and brimstone. Let’s go in quietly and peaceably, but not as if we’re trying to sneak up. People who make illicit whiskey tend to shoot first and find out later whether their guests were revenue agents.”
As he and Mildred first appeared in the wavering, golden light the boy looked up from the pot and shouted, “Hey!”
For a moment the whole tableau was absolutely motionless. Even the heavy-necked horses seemed to sense the drama of the moment and froze in position. Then, like a squad of American football players shifting into a defensive formation, the whole family moved. The three women stood between the newcomers and the bubbling cauldron as the men stepped forward, the elder first, the younger just behind. Simon and Mildred waited.
“They don’t look friendly at all,” said Mildred out of the corner of her mouth.
“They’re not,” the Saint said simply. “Now’s a good chance for you to use your greatest talent. Think of some lie to make them love us.”
Smiling pleasantly, he stepped forward toward the grim-visaged men.
“Good evening. Our car broke down on the lane. We saw your fire.”
The older man squinted at him for a long moment, chewing on a splinter of wood. A cap, which looked as if it might never have been removed since it was first put on years before, effectively de-emphasized his cranium and eyes, and brought into full prominence the mushroom effulgence of his scarlet nose.
“Main road is behind ye,” he said finally.
Mildred came to the rescue then. Her face suddenly went into contortions of pain, and she stood on one foot and clasped her arms around Simon’s neck, letting him support her.
“I... was hurt,” she gasped, “when our car went in the ditch.”
She tried bravely to get her breath and stand straight again. Sympathetic glances were exchanged by various members of the tinker’s party.
“What ye want, then?” the eldest woman asked.
“Somewhere to stay the night,” Simon answered.
“This is not a hotel, mister,” she said.
Simon went forward another step.
“We’re nothing to do with the revenue, if that’s what worries you,” he said.
The women closed ranks in front of the pot.
“We’re just fixin’ ourselves a bit o’ stew,” the eldest said.
“Shure and why would the revenue care about that one way or the other?”
“What are ye, then?” asked the younger man.
Mildred took over again, bursting excitedly into rapid speech.
“Please... we’re running away from my stepfather to get married! He’s a terrible man. He’s already wasted away my mother’s fortune, and he wants what little I have left. If he catches us he’ll... We need your help — desperately!”
She broke off, sobbing violently.
“It’s the truth, is it?” asked the elder man.
“She’s been under a terrible strain,” Simon replied, avoiding any direct commitment as to Mildred’s veracity.
The lead man had begun shifting uncertainly from foot to foot.
“Hould on,” he said.
His entire group went into a huddle near the fire.
“We’ll be glad to pay,” Simon called, thus probably cutting several minutes off the secret discussion.
“Well now, ’tis all agreed,” the man said, straightening up and turning. “Ye can stay with pleasure, if ye don’t mind the company of a tinker and his family.” He held out his calloused hand and Simon shook it. “Delighted. And thank you very much.”
“Me name is Muldoon,” the tinker said. “And this is me wife. That’s me boy Sean, and these are Tessa and Genevra.”
“I’m Rick Fenton,” Simon said, “and this is Mildred Kleinschmidt.”
They went to the fire, where the boy, Sean, was stirring the pulpy liquid again. Mildred half closed her eyes and stepped back as some of the violently odoriferous steam drifted into her face.
“Delicious-looking stew,” the Saint said solemnly.
“It will be, when it’s finished,” said Muldoon, winking.
He pulled out the thermometer, looked, and dropped it back again.
“How would ye like a little of the finished product?”
“Fine,” answered Simon politely. Then he added, with concealed relief, “But I’m afraid we won’t be staying that long.”
“Oh, we have a sample here from the last batch.”
While Muldoon fetched the sample, his wife was questioning Mildred with great concern about her injuries and feeling her ankle for broken bones.
“Ye poor little bit of a thing,” Mrs. Muldoon murmured, with a reproachful glance at Simon. “Runnin’ away to be wed, and not even a pair o’ decent shoes for yer feet.”
Muldoon came around the fire with a large pickle jar. He unscrewed the cap.
“See what ye think of that.”
Simon braced himself, tilted up the jar, and swallowed as little as possible. The effect on his tongue and mouth combined various qualities of iodine, gasoline, and molten lava. He was damp-eyed and speechless for a moment. Finally he found that some small remnant of his vocal apparatus had miraculously escaped destruction.
“Delicious,” he said hoarsely, but with an expression no different from the one his face would have worn had he just been treated to a cup of Olympian ambrosia.
Muldoon beamed.
“Here, come on,” Sean said crossly. “Me arm’s dropping off.”
Muldoon went to take a turn at stirring the cauldron.
“Tessa,” he called, “go and fetch our guests somethin’ to eat.”
Simon unobtrusively separated some bills from the fold of money in his pocket and offered them to Muldoon.
“Here you are,” he said, “and many thanks.”
“Aw, it’s too much,” protested Muldoon, tucking the money into his shirt nevertheless. “Now why don’t you and yer bride let me wife show ye yer quarters?”
Sean, who had walked off toward the horses and back again, aggrievedly rubbing his overworked stirring arm, suddenly stiffened and cried out.
“Hey, Dad!”
There at the edge of the clearing, their faces menacing in the dancing light, stood Mildred’s hunters.
6
Simon’s response was so prompt and inspirational that not even two seconds passed between Sean’s cry and his own.
“Revenue men!” he yelled.
“The divil and it is!” roared Muldoon in outraged agreement.
He snatched his stirring stick out of the pot of potheen and charged across the clearing. His son charged too, grabbing up a makeshift cudgel from the heap of spare wood by the fire.