“It's a rascally world!” broke out O'Shea, with bitterness. “It is!” assented Joe, with a positive energy there was no gainsaying. “Is Mr. Layton gone with the rest this morning?” “He is, and the Marquis. They 're a-horseback on two ponies not worth fifty shilling apiece.” “And that counter-jumper, Mosely, I'll wager he too thinks himself first favorite for the heiress.” “Well, then, in the name of all that's lucky, why don't you thry your own chance?” said Joe, coaxingly. “Is n't it because I _did_ try that they have left me out of this invitation? Is n't it because they saw I was like to be the winning horse that they scratched me out of the race? Is n't it just because Gorman O'Shea was the man to carry off the prize that they would n't let me enter the lists?” “There 's only two more as rich as her in all England,” chimed in Joe, “and one of them will never marry any but the Emperor of Roosia.” “She has money enough!” muttered O'Shea. “And neither father nor mother, brother, sister, kith or kin,” continued Joe, in a tone of exultation that seemed to say he knew of no such good luck in life as to stand alone and friendless in the world. “Those Heathcotes are related to her.” “No more than they are to you. I have it all from Miss Smithers, the maid. 'We 're as free as air, Mr. Rouse,' says she; 'wherever we have a “conceit,” we can follow it' That's plain talking, anyhow.” “Would you marry Smithers, Joe?” said his master, with a roguish twinkle in his eye. “Maybe, if I knew for what; though, by my conscience, she's no beauty!” “I meant, of course, for a good consideration.” “Not on a bill, though,--money down,--hard money.” “And how much of it?” asked O'Shea, with a knowing look. “The price of that place at Einsale.” “The 'Trout and Triangle,' Joe?” laughed out his master. “Are you still yearning after being an innkeeper in your native town?” “I am just that,” replied Joe, solemnly. “'T is what I 'd rather be than Lord Mayor of Dublin!” “Well, it is an honorable ambition, no doubt of it. Nothing can be more reasonable, besides, than a man's desire to fill that station in life which, to his boyish ideas, seemed high and enviable.” This speech Mr. O'Shea delivered in a tone by which he occasionally turned to rehearse oratorical effects, and which, by some strange sympathy, always appeared to please his follower. “Yes, Joe,” continued he, “as the poet says, 'The child is father of the man.'” “You mane the man is father of the child,” broke in Joe. “I do not, booby; I meant what I have said, and what Wordsworth said before me.” “The more fool he, then. It's nobody's father he 'd be. Arrah! that's the way you always spoil a fine sintiment with something out of a poet. Poets and play-actors never helped a man out of a ditch!” “Will you marry this Smithers, if that be her name?” said O'Shea, angrily. “For the place--” “I mean as much.”