Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil BlasLever, Charles
General
Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas
Lever, Charles
Ireland -- Fiction
"There! there, a cushla!" cried Andy, as he saw me performing the first
act of the piece with a vigor he had never calculated on; "'tis n't a
coach and six ye want to drive through. Tear and ages! ye'll take the
whole roof off." The truth was, I worked away with a malicious pleasure
in the destruction of the old miser's roof; nor is it quite certain
how far my zeal might have carried me, when suddenly one of the
rafters--mere light poles of ash--gave way, and down I went, at first
slowly, and then quicker, into a kind of funnel formed by the smashed
timbers and the earthen sods. The crash, the din, and the dust appeared
to have terrified the wicked beast below, for she stood trembling in one
corner of the stable, and never moved a limb as I walked boldly up and
passed the bridle over her head. This done, I had barely time to spring
on her back, when the door was forced open by the young gentleman, whose
fears for my fate had absorbed every other thought.
"Are you safe, my boy, quite safe?" he cried, making his way over the
fallen rubbish.
"Oh! the devil fear him," cried Andy, in a perfect rage of passion;
"I wish it was his bones was smashed, instead of the
roof-sticks--see!--Och, murther, only look at this." And Andy stood amid
the ruins, a most comical picture of affliction, in part real and in
part assumed. Meanwhile the youth had advanced to my side, and, with
many a kind and encouraging word, more than repaid me for all my danger.
"'T is n't five pound will pay the damage," cried Andy, running up on
his fingers a sum of imaginary arithmetic.
"Where's the saddle, you old--" What the young man was about to add, I
know not; but at a look from me he stopped short.
"Is it abusin' me you're for now, afther wrecking my house and
destroying my premises?" cried Andy, whose temper was far from sweetened
by the late catastrophe. "Sure what marcy my poor beast would get from
the likes of ye! sorry step she 'll go in yer company; pay the damages
ye done, and be off."
Here was a new turn of affairs, and, judging from the irascibility
of both parties, a most disastrous one; it demanded, indeed, all my
skill,--all the practised dexterity of a mind trained, as mine had been
been by many a subtlety, to effect a compromise, which I did thus:
my patron being cast in the costs of all the damages to the amount of
twenty shillings, and the original contract to be maintained in all its
integrity.
The young man paid the money without speaking; but I had time to mark
that the purse from which he drew it was far from weighty. "Are we free
to go at last?" cried he, in a voice of suppressed wrath.
"Yes, yer honor; all's right," answered Andy, whose heart was mollified
at the sight of money. "A pleasant journey, and safe to ye; take good
care of the beast, don't ride her over the stones, and--"
The remainder of the exhortation was lost to us, as we set forth in a
short jog-trot, I running alongside.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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