Paddy Corbett, who had been buoyed up by the hope of making two hundred per cent. of his lading, now seeing all his gainful views vanish into thin air, was loud and impassioned in the expression of his disappointment. “O, Jillian Dawly!” he cried, swinging his body to and fro, “Jillian, a roon manima, what’ll ye say to yer man, afther throwing out of his hand the half year’s rint that he had to give the agint? O! what’ll ye say, aveen, but that I med a purty padder-napeka of myself, listening to Shane Glas, the yellow schamer; or what’ll Sheelabeg, the crathur, say, whin Tim Murphy won’t take her without the cows that I won’t have to give her? O, Misther Pigtail, avourneen, be marciful to an honest father’s son; don’t take me short, avourneen, an’ that God might take you short. Give me the tin pounds it cost me, an’ I’ll pray for yer sowl, both now an’ in the world to come. O! Jillian, Jillian, I’ll never face ye, nor Sheelabeg, nor any o’ the crathurs agin, without the tin pound, any how. I’ll take the vestmint, an’ all the books in Father Darby’s house of it.” “Well, if you don’t give the tobacco to me for less than that, you can call on one Mr Prywell, at the other side of the bridge; he deals in such articles too. You see I cannot do more for you, but you may go farther and fare worse,” said the perfidious tobacconist, as he directed the unfortunate man to the residence of Mr Paul Prywell, the officer of excise. With heavy heart, and anxious eye peering in every direction beneath his broad-leafed hat, Paddy Corbett proceeded till he reached a private residence having a green door and a brass knocker. He hesitated, seeing no shop nor appearance of business there; but on being assured that this was indeed the house of Mr Prywell, he approached, and gave the door three thundering knocks with the butt end of his holly-handled whip. The owner of the domicile, roused by this very unceremonious mode of announcement, came forth to demand the intruder’s business, and to wonder that he would not prefer giving a single rap with the brass knocker, as was the wont of persons in his grade of society, instead of sledging away at the door like a “peep-o’-day boy.” “Yer honour will excuse my bouldness,” said Paddy, taking off his hat, and scraping the mud before and behind him a full yard; “excuse my bouldness, for I never seed such curifixes on a dure afore, an’ I wouldn’t throuble yer honour’s house at all at all, only in regard of a taste of goods that I was tould would _shoot_ yer honour. Ye can have it, a yinusal, for less than nothing, case I don’t find myself in heart to push on farther; for the baste is slow, the crathur, an’ myself that’s saying it, making buttons for fear o’ the guager.” “Who, might I ask,” said the astonished officer of excise, “directed you here to sell smuggled tobacco?”