“Faith, ye’ll not get much sympathy from the gintry of Ireland on _that_ score,” said Jerry. “An’ then that Malachy--he gives me a cramp! he ain’t got a grin in his whole carcass, an’ he can’t understand a word that I say, so that O’Daly has that for another excuse to hang around all the while. Take my steer, Jerry; if anybody leaves you an estate, you jest inquire if there’s a bard and a hereditary dumb waiter that go with it; an’ if there is, you jest sashay off somewhere else.” “Ah, sir, but an estate’s a great thing.” “Yes--to tell about. But now jest look at the thing as she stands. I’m the O’Mahony an’ all that, an’ I own more land than you can shake a stick at; but what does it all come to? Why, when the int’rest is paid, I am left so poor that if churches was sellin’ at two cents apiece, I couldn’t buy the hinge on a contribution box. An’ then it’s downright mortifyin’ to me to have to git a livin’ by takin’ things away from these poverty-stricken devils here. I’m ashamed to look ’em in the face, knowin’ as I do how O’Daly makes ’em whack up pigs, an’ geese, an’ chickens, an’ vegetables, an’ fish, not to mention all the money they can scrape together, just to keep me in idleness. It ain’t fair. Every time one of ’em comes in, to bring me a peck o’ peas, or a pail o’ butter, or a shillin’ that he’s managed to earn somewhere, I say to myself: ‘Ole hoss, if you was that fellow, and he was loafin’ round as The O’Mahony, you’d jest lay for him and kick the whole top of his head off, and serve him darned well right, too.’” Jerry looked at his master now with a prolonged and serious scrutiny, greatly differing from his customary quizzical glance. “Throo for your honor,” he said at last, in a hesitating way, as if his remark disclosed only half his thought. “Yes, sirree, I’m sourin’ fast on the hull thing,” The O’Mahony exclaimed. “To do nothin’ all day long but to listen to O’Daly’s yarns, an’ make signs at Malachy, an’ think how long it is between drinks--that ain’t no sort o’ life for a white man. Egad! if there was any fightin’ goin’ on anywhere in the world, darn me if I would not pull up stakes an’ light out for it. Another six months o’ this, an’ my blood’ll all be turned to butter-milk.” The distant apparition of a sailing-vessel hung upon the outer horizon, the noon sun causing the white squares of canvas to glow like jewels upon the satin sheen of the sea. Jerry stole a swift glance at his companion, and then bent a tong meditative gaze upon the passing vessel, humming softly to himself as he looked. At last he turned to his companion with an air of decision. “O’Mahony,” he said, using the name thus for the first time, “I’m resolved in me mind to disclose something to ye. It’s a sacret I’m goin’ to tell you.” He spoke with impressive solemnity, and the other looked up with interest awakened. “Go ahead,” he said.