“_Sorrow_” said I; “what do you mean by sorrow?” “That there’s no better, plase your honour, can be seen. We have two more, to be sure; but one has no top, and the other no bottom. Any way there’s no better can be seen than this same.” [77] “And these horses!” cried I; “why, this horse is so lame he can hardly stand.” “Oh, plase your honour, tho’ he can’t stand, he’ll _go_ fast enough. He has a great deal of the rogue in him, plase your honour. He’s always that way at first setting out.” “And that wretched animal with the galled breast!” “He’s all the better for it, when once he warms; it’s he that will go with the speed of light, plase your honour. Sure, is not he Knockecroghery? and didn’t I give fifteen guineas for him, barring the luck penny, at the fair of Knockecroghery, and he rising four year old at the same time?” I could not avoid smiling at this speech: but my _gentleman_, maintaining his angry gravity, declared, in a sullen tone, that he would be cursed if he went with such horses; and the Frenchman, with abundance of gesticulation, made a prodigious chattering, which no mortal understood. “Then I’ll tell you what you’ll do,” said Paddy; “you’ll take four, as becomes gentlemen of your quality, and you’ll see how we’ll powder along.” And straight he put the knuckle of his fore-finger in his mouth, and whistled shrill and strong; and, in a moment, a whistle somewhere out in the fields answered him. I protested against these proceedings, but in vain; before the first pair of horses were fastened to the chaise, up came a little boy with the others _fresh_ from the plough. They were quick enough in putting these to; yet how they managed it with their tackle, I know not. “Now we’re fixed handsomely,” said Paddy. “But this chaise will break down the first mile.” “Is it this chaise, plase your honour? I’ll engage it will go the world’s end. The universe wouldn’t break it down now; sure it was mended but last night.” Then seizing his whip and reins in one hand, he clawed up his stockings with the other: so with one easy step he got into his place, and seated himself, coachman-like, upon a well-worn bar of wood, that served as a coach-box. “Throw me the loan of a trusty Bartly, for a cushion,” said he. A frieze coat was thrown up over the horses’ heads--Paddy caught it. “Where are you, Hosey?” cried he. “Sure I’m only rowling a wisp of straw on my leg,” replied Hosey. “Throw me up,” added this paragon of postilions, turning to one of the crowd of idle bystanders. “Arrah, push me up, can’t ye?”