It is not necessary to present you to the portly gentleman who holds the ribbons, all encased as he is in box-coats and railway wrappers; you can still distinguish Mr. O'Shea, and as unmistakably recognize his man Joe beside him. The morning is sharp, clear, and frosty, but so perfectly still that the blue smoke of Mr. O'Shea's cigar hangs floating in the air behind him, as the nimble nags spin along at something slightly above thirteen miles an hour. Joe, too, solaces himself with the bland weed, but in more primitive fashion, from a short “dudeen” of native origin: his hat is pressed down firmly over his brows, and his hands, even to the wrists, deeply encased in his pockets, for Joe, be it owned, is less amply supplied with woollen comforts than his master, and feels the morning sharp. “Now, I call this a very neat turn-out; the sort of thing a man might not be ashamed to tool along through any town in Europe,” said O'Shea. “You might show it in Sackville Street!” said Joe, proudly. “Sackville Street?” rejoined O'Shea, in an accent of contemptuous derision. “Is there any use, I wonder, in bringing you all over the world?” “There is not,” said the other, in his most dogged manner. “If there was,” continued O'Shea, “you'd know that Dublin had no place amongst the great cities of Europe,--that nobody went there,--none so much as spoke of it. I 'd just as soon talk of Macroom in good society.” “And why would n't you talk of Macroom? What's the shame in it?” asked the inexorable Joe. “There would be just the same shame as if I was to bring you along with me when I was asked out to dinner!” “You might do worse,” was the dry reply. “I 'm curious to hear how.” “Troth, you might; and easy too,” said Joe, sententiously. These slight passages did not seem to invite conversation, and so, for above a mile or two, nothing was spoken on either side. At last Mr. O'Shea said,-- “I think that gray horse has picked up a stone; he goes tenderly near side.” “He does not; he goes as well as you do,” was Joe's answer. “You're as blind as a bat, or you'd see he goes lame,” said O'Shea, drawing up. “There, he's thrown it now; it was only a bit of a pebble,” said Joe, as though the victory was still on his side. “Upon my life, I wonder why I keep you at all,” burst out O'Shea, angrily. “So do I; and I wonder more why I stay.” “Does it ever occur to you to guess why?” “No; never.” “It has nothing to say to being well fed, well lodged, well paid, and well cared for?” “No; it has not,” said Joe, gravely. “The bit I ate, I get how I can; these is my own clothes, and sorrow sixpence I seen o' your money since last Christmas.” “Get down,--get down on the road this instant. You shall never sit another mile beside me.” “I will not get down. Why would I, in a strange counthry, and not a farthin' in my pocket!” “Have a civil tongue, then, and don't provoke me to turn you adrift on the world.” “I don't want to provoke you.”