Doyle!

_Enter BIDDY, running, with a ladle in her hand._

_Christy._ Drop whatever you have in your hand, and come here, and be
hanged to you! And had you no ears to your head, Biddy?

_Biddy._ Sure I have, sir--ears enough. Only they are bothering me so
without, that pig and the dog fighting, that I could not hear ye calling
at-all-at-all. What is it?--For I'm skimming the pot, and can't lave it.

[_Miss GALLAGHER goes on dressing_

_Christy._ It's only these apples, see!--You'll make me an apple-pie,
Biddy, smart.

_Biddy._ Save us, sir!--And how will I ever get time, when I've the hash to
make for them Scotch yet? Nor can I tell, for the life of me, what it was
I did with the onions and scallions neither, barring by great luck they'd
be in and under the press here--(_running to look under the press_)--which
they are, praised be God! in the far corner.

[_BIDDY stretches her arm under the press._

_Christy._ There's a nice girl, and a 'cute cliver girl, worth a dozen of
your Ferrinafads.

[_BIDDY throws the onions out from under the press, while he speaks._

_Miss G._ Then she's as idle a girl as treads the earth, in or out of