“The Back Trot, Darby—­go on.”

“Well, sir, the Back Trot; but does that mean that he trots backwards, sir?”

“Never mind, Darby, he’ll trot anyway that will serve his own purposes—­go on, I tell you.”

“Well, sir, sure some one has wrote to this Counsellor Browbeater about him, and what do you think, but Counsellor Browbeater has wrote to Mr. Lucre, and Mr. Lucre spoke to me, so that it’s all the same as if the Castle had wrote to myself—–­and axed me if I knewn anything about him.”

“Well, what did you say?”

“Why, I said I did not, and neither did I then; but may I never die in sin, but I think I have a clue to him now.”

“Well, and how is that?”

“Why, sir, as I was ordhering the tenantry in wid the cars and carts to remove M’Loughlin’s furniture, I seen this Weasand along wid Father Roche, and there they were—­the two o’ them—­goin’ from house to house; whatever they said to the people I’m sure I don’t know, but, anyhow, hell resave—­hem.”

“Take care, Darby,” said Val, “no swearing—­I fear you’re but a bad convert.”

“Why, blood alive, sir,” replied Darby, “sure turnin’ Protestant, I hope, isn’t to prevent me from swearin’—­don’t themselves swear through thick and thin? and, verily, some of the Parsons too, are as handy at it, as if they had sarved an apprenticeship to it.”

“Well, but about this fellow, the Spy?”

“Why, sir, when I ordhered the cars the people laughed at me, and said they had betther autority for keepin’ them, than you had for sendin’ for them; and when I axed them who it was, they laughed till you’d think they’d split.  I know very well it’s a Risin that’s to be; and our throats will be cut by this blackguard spy, Weasand.”

“And so you have got no cars,” said Val.

“I got one,” he replied, “and meetin’ Lanty Gorman goin’ home wid Square Deaker’s ass—­King James—­or Sheemus a Cocka, as he calls him—­that is, ‘Jemmy the Cock,’ in regard of the great courage he showed at the Boyne—­I made him promise to bring him up.  Lanty, sir, says the Square’s a’most gone.”

“Why, is he worse?” asked Val, very coolly.

“Begad, sir, sure he thinks it’s the twelfth o’ July; and he was always accustomed to get a keg of the Boyne Wather, whenever that day came round, to drink the loyal toasts in; and nothing would satisfy him but that Lanty would put the cart on Sheemus a Cocka, and bring him a keg of it all the way from the Boyne.  Lanty to plaise him, sets off wid himself to St. Patrick’s Well, where they make the Stations, and filled his keg there; and the Square, I suppose, is this moment drinkin’, if he’s able to drink, the Glorious Memory in blessed wather, may God forgive him, or blessed punch, for it’s well known that the wather of St. Patrick’s Well is able to consecrate the whiskey any day, glory be to God!”

“Damn my honor, Darby,” said Phil, “but that’s queer talk from a Protestant, if you are one.”