“Who is this?--what's the matter here?” said Sir Marmaduke, as he stared in mingled horror and astonishment at the object before him. “Faix, ye may well ax,” said the little man, in a thick guttural voice. “Sorra one of the neighbours knew me this morning. I'm Tim M'Garrey, of the cross-roads.” “What has happened to you then?” asked Sir Marmaduke, somewhat ruffled by the sturdy tone of the ragged fellow's address. “'Tis your own doing, then--divil a less--you may be proud of your work.” “My doing!--how do you dare to say so?” “'Tis no darin' at all--'tis thrue, as I'm here. Them bloody beehives you made me take home wid me, I put them in a corner of the house, and by bad luck it was the pig's corner, and, sorra bit, but she rooted them out, and upset them, and with that, the varmint fell upon us all, and it was two hours before we killed them--divil such a fight ever ye seen: Peggy had the beetle, and I the griddle, for flattening them agin the wall, and maybe we didn't work hard, while the childer was roarin' and bawlin' for the bare life.” “Gracious mercy, would this be credited?--could any man conceive barbarism like this?” cried Sir Marmaduke, as with uplifted hands he stood overwhelmed with amazement. Wylie again whispered something, and again telegraphed to the applicant to move off; but the little man stood his ground and continued. “'Twas a heifer you gave Tom Lenahan, and it's a dhroll day, the M'Garrey's warn't as good as the Lenahans, to say we'd have nothing but bees, and them was to get a dacent baste!” “Stand aside, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke; “Wylie has got my orders about you. Who is this?” “Faix, me, sir--Andrew Maher. I'm come to give your honour the key--I couldn't stop there any longer.” “What! not stay in that comfortable house, with the neat shop I had built and stocked for you? What does this mean?” “'Tis just that, then, your honour--the house is a nate little place, and barrin' the damp, and the little grate, that won't burn turf at all, one might do well enough in it; but the shop is the divil entirely.” “How so--what's wrong about it?” “Every thing's wrong about it. First and foremost, your honour, the neighbours has no money; and though they might do mighty well for want of tobacco, and spirits, and bohea, and candles, and soap, and them trifles, as long as they never came near them, throth they couldn't have them there fornint their noses, without wishing for a taste; and so one comes in for a pound of sugar, and another wants a ha' porth of nails, or a piece of naygar-head, or an ounce of starch--and divil a word they have, but 'put it in the book, Andy.' By my conscience, it's a quare book would hould it all.” “But they'll pay in time--they'll pay when they sell the crops.”