At last I obtained
a grumbling assent to my going on shore, and off I went like a
sky-rocket. Being in a desperate hurry, I hired a jaunting-car to take
me to my father's house. 'Is it the O'Brien of Ballyhinch that you
mane?' inquired the spalpeen who drove the horse. 'Sure it is,' replied
I; 'and how is he, and all the noble family of the O'Briens?" 'All well
enough, bating the boy Tim, who caught a bit of confusion in his head
the other night at the fair, and now lies at home in bed quite
insensible to mate or drink; but the doctors give hopes of his recovery,
as all the O'Briens are known to have such thick heads.' 'What do you
mane by that, bad manners to you?' said I, 'but poor Tim--how did it
happen--was there a fight?' 'Not much of a fight--only a bit of a
skrummage--three crowners' inquests, no more.' 'But you are not going
the straight road, you thief,' said I, seeing that he had turned off to
the left. 'I've my reasons for that, your honour,' replied he; 'I always
turn away from the Castle out of principle--I lost a friend there, and
it makes me melancholy.' 'How came that for to happen?' 'All by
accident, your honour; they hung my poor brother Patrick there, because
he was a bad hand at arithmetic.' 'He should have gone to a better
school then,' said I. 'I've an idea that it was a bad school that he was
brought up in,' replied he, with a sigh. 'He was a cattle-dealer, your
honour, and one day, somehow or another, he'd a cow too much--all for
not knowing how to count, your honour,--bad luck to his school-master.
Pages:
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159