“Yes, sir, _of_ course, sir; it’s on the fire, sir,” joyously responded the relieved servitor, although the fowls which were to furnish it were engaged in picking up a precarious subsistence at his very feet, and the cabbage to “poultice” the bacon flabbily flourishing in the adjoining garden. “Get in my traps and rods”—the car was laden with fishing-tackle of the most elaborate description. “Have you good fishing here?” “Yes, sir, _of_ course, sir—the finest in Ireland. Trouts lepping into the fryin’-pan out of the lake foreninst ye. The marquis took twoscore between where yer standing and Fin Ma Coole’s Rock last Thursday; and Mr. Blake, of Town Hill—more power to him!—hooked six elegant salmon in the pool over, under Kilgobbin Head.” “I want change of a sovereign.” “Yes, sir, _of_ course, sir—change for a hundred pound, sir. This way, sir. Mind yer head in regard of that flitch of bacon. It gave Captain Burke a black eye on Friday, and the county inspector got a wallop in the jaw that made his teeth ring like the bell in the middle o’ Mass.” And he led the way into the hotel. The charioteer, after a prolonged and exciting chase through several interstices in his outer garment, succeeded in fishing up a weather-beaten black pipe, which he proceeded to “ready” with a care and gravity befitting the operation. “Have ye got a taste o’ fire, Lanty Kerrigan?” addressing a diminutive personage, the remains of whose swallow-tailed frieze coat were connected with his frame through the medium of a hay-rope, and whose general appearance bore a stronger resemblance to that of a scarecrow than a man and a brother. “I’m lost intirely for a _shough_. The forriner [the stranger] wudn’t stand smokin’, as he sed the tobaccy was infayrior, but never an offer he med me av betther.” “Howld a minnit, an’ I’ll get ye a hot sod.” And in less than the time specified Lanty returned with a glowing sod of turf snatched from a neighboring fire. “More power, Lanty!” exclaimed the car-driver, proceeding to utilize the burning brand. “Don’t stan’ too nigh the baste, _avic_, or she’ll be afther aiting yer waistband and lavin’ ye in yer buff.” “What soart av a fare have ye, Misther Malone?” asked Lanty, now at a respectful distance from the mare. “Wan av th’ army—curse o’ Crummle an thim!—from the barrack beyant at Westpoort.” “Is it a good tack?” “I’ve me doubts,” shaking his head gravely and taking several wicked whiffs of his _dhudheen_. “He’s afther axin’ for change, an’ that luks like a naygur.” “Thrue for ye, Misther Malone! Did ye rouse him at all?” asked the other in an anxious tone. He expected the return of the “forriner” and was taking soundings. “Rouse him! Begorra, ye might as well be endayvorin’ to rouse a griddle. I’m heart scalded wud him. I soothered him wud stories av the good people, leprechauns, an’ banshees until I was as dhry as a cuckoo.” “Musha, thin, he must be only fit for wakin’ whin _you_ cudn’t rouse him, Mickey Malone.”