Either the O'Donoghue conceived the allusion one that bore hardly on himself, or he felt vexed that the authority of a father over his son should have been usurped by another, or both causes were in operation together, but he turned an angry look on Sir Archy, and said-- “And why shouldn't the boy ride? was there ever one of his name or family that didn't know how to cross a country? I don't intend him for a highland pedlar.” “He might be waur,” retorted M'Nab, solemnly, “he might be an Irish beggar.” “By my soul, sir,” broke in O'Donoghue; but fortunately an interruption saved the speech from being concluded, for at the same moment the door opened, and Mark O'Donoghue, travel-stained and weary-looking, entered the room. “Well, Mark,” said the old man, as his eyes glistened at the appearance of his favourite son--“what sport, boy?” “Poor enough, sir; five brace in two days is nothing to boast of, besides two hares. Ah, Lanty--you here; how goes it?” “Purty well, as times go, Mr. Mark,” said the horse-dealer, affecting a degree of deference he would not have deemed necessary had they been alone. “I'm glad to see you back again.” “Why--what old broken-down devils have you now got on hand to pass off upon us? It's fellows like you destroy the sport of the country. You carry away every good horse to be found, and cover the country with spavined, wind-galled brutes, not fit for the kennel.” “That's it, Mark--give him a canter, lad,” cried the old man, joyfully. “I know what you are at well enough,” resumed the youth, encouraged by these tokens of approval; “you want that grey mare of mine. You have some fine English officer ready to give you an hundred and fifty, or, may be, two hundred guineas, for her, the moment you bring her over to England.” “May I never-- “That's the trade you drive. Nothing too bad for us--nothing too good for them.” “See now, Mr. Mark, I hope I may never------” “Well, Lanty, one word for all; I'd rather send a bullet through her skull this minute, than let you have her for one of your fine English patrons.” “Won't you let me speak a word at all,” interposed the horse-dealer, in an accent half imploring, half deprecating. “If I buy the mare--and it isn't for want of a sporting offer if I don't--she'll never go to England--no--devil a step. She's for one in the country here beside you; but I won't say more, and there now.” At these words he drew a soiled black leather pocket-book from the breast of his coat, and opening it, displayed a thick roll of bank notes, tied with a piece of string--“There now--there's sixty pounds in that bundle there--at least I hope so, for I never counted it since I got it--take it for her or leave it--just as you like; and may I never have luck with a beast, but there's not a gentleman in the county would give the same money for her.” Here he dropped his voice to a whisper, and added, “Sure the speedy cut is ten pounds off her price any day, between two brothers.”