“Your honour, when leaving, told Miss Thompson to write to Dublin to order beer and whisky, but she has forgotten to do it. The day before yesterday she sent me to Tom Sweeney, the tavern-keeper, to get some. He refused to give it! And since yesterday there has not been a drop of whisky in this house!” “This is very serious,” said Mr. Thompson, by whose side I was already installed in the dog-cart, “but I dreaded something worse. Tim, you can follow us with the luggage.” “Monsieur,” he continued, laughing, “you were kind enough to accept the hospitality of an unfortunately boycotted household; but you see, you will have to share some privations. However, I can promise you some bread for this evening. There is not a baker, within a round of ten leagues, who will supply us with bread, but we have a kind neighbour who is willing from time to time to give us some of his provisions. He brings it himself across the park by night. We dare not ask him very often because he risks being shot on every journey; but we shall have some to-day. On the other hand, you will not have any meat; it comes to us from Dublin, about forty miles away, and I have not had time to write for it. Usually we do without it, because it has to be fetched from the station, for no messenger will bring it to us, and our household is so much reduced that we avoid errands as much as possible. We therefore content ourselves with biscuits, preserves, and the produce of the poultry yard.” “But, dear sir,” I replied, “believe me, I am too glad of your kind invitation not to be very grateful for it, even if you could only give me a potato and a glass of water. But let me speak freely to you. I quite admit that the butcher, for instance, makes different excuses in order to avoid supplying your cook with meat, but if you went yourself, and, with the money in your hand, you asked him to sell you a leg or a loin of mutton, it appears to me very difficult to believe that he would dare to refuse to give it to you.” “Will you make the experiment with me?” “I dare not ask you to do so, but really nothing would give me greater pleasure.” We had just reached the market-place, which was surrounded with shops. At the door of one amongst them, hung neck downwards two magnificent half oxen; evidently this was the butcher’s. On the pavement stood a group of beggars and vagabonds of all ages, looking with famished eyes at all the good things displayed in front of the shop on a marble table. Mr. Thompson drove across to that side. “Boys,” said he, stopping his horse five or six steps away from the group, “which of you will earn sixpence by holding my horse?”