“Sibby Byrn saw him thrust these d____d papers under the gate, and then cut over the bog as if the divil was at his heels. Well--small blame to him for runnin’--for, by all that’s beautiful, if I had gripped him, he would have gone back to the villain that employs him, lighter by both lugs. Sit down, Shemus. Izzy Blake, fill the boy a glass.” And then he began, poor ould gentleman, askin’ me about the dogs; but before I could answer him, he gave a sigh. “Arrah,” says he, “what need I be talkin’ about dogs, when, after November next, the divil a four-footed baste will be left upon Killcrogher, good nor bad!” “Something must be done immediately,” said the priest. “If they foreclose the mortgage, and get a recaver on the estate, we’re done for.” “If we could only raise five thousand to pay that cursed claim, we might stave off the other things till some good luck would turn up,” said the driver. Sir Thomas sighed. Troth, an enemy would have pitied him! “Arrah, Izzy Blake--that day will never come! Don’t talk of good luck, that’s over with me,” says he. “O Lord! to be baten by Peter Daly--and his grandmother before him, keepin’ a huxtery in Loughrea--and then to be hunted home afterwards, like a tithe-proctor! It’s enough to drive a man to drink, or make a quaker kick his own mother.” You see, Mark, (observed the captain, in explanation,) the ould master had stood for the county. Well, from the time he came into possession of the estate, of course, Sir Thomas was like his father, a Sunday man and as he couldn’t meet the sheriff openly at the election, what the divil does he do, but he sits out in a boat, where he could hear how things were goin’ on, and give orders to the tenants. The Lord sees, the cratures did all they could for a good master as he was. Didn’t they kidnap the electors, tare down the booths, burn Peter Daly’s talley-room teetotally,--and throw a jaunting car, with six voters, clane over the bridge--horse, driver, and all! And what more; could they do? The money bate us in the long-run; and it was well Sir Thomas wasn’t taken into the bargain--for the bailiffs chased him to the very gates. No wonder then, poor ould gentleman, that the very name of the election put him always into a rage. * In olden time, Irish gentlemen found it occasionally convenient to rest from their labours for six days, and only exhibit their persons on the seventh. “Never mind,” said the priest, striving to say something pleasant, and comfort the ould master; “it’s a long lane that wants a turn--and luck will come at last. There’s yer two sisters, Sir Thomas--the best catholics in Connemara, and ready to travel any moment that they’re wanted--if the Lord would only mercifully take them to himself. Indeed, they’re too good for this wicked world--and they would be far snugger in the next.” “Divil a chance there,” says Sir Thomas; “they’re the very counterpart of their mother--the Lord be good to her! an she lived to ninety-seven.”