“Ah,” said Peace, remembering the name of Pocklington but too well.
It was a Mrs. Pocklington who prosecuted him for attempted burglary, and who had committed such a ferocious assault on him with a house broom.
“But may be you don’t know the place. The name is not familiar to you.”
“Ah! but it is most familiar,” returned Peace; “and if they can accommodate me, I think I will put up at the ‘Blue Dolphin.’”
“Ah! bedad, but they must accommodate you. They’re dacent people enough, and aint particular at all, at all.”
The two chatted familiarly during the whole of the journey, and the conversation did not flag or come to a conclusion till the house in question was reached.
Mr. Dennis Macarty—that was the name of its driver—who was, it is perhaps needless to say, a native of the “Emerald Isle”—took good care to see his animals safely housed for the night, and after this had been done he joined Peace in the snug little parlour of the establishment.
Mr. Macarty seemed to be well known to the landlord the landlady, as well as the frequenters of the house, all of whom addressed him in a familiar and friendly manner.
“And how’s business, Mr. Macarty?” inquired a sedate-looking little man in the public room.
“Och, murdher, it’s mighty bad, intirely, aud has bin so for a goodish while. We’ve got some of the most intherestin’ natheral coorosities, but they don’t dhraw as they ought. May be we do a roaring business in wan town or at wan fair, but the next two or three places are, bad luck to ’em, that bad that we dhrop a power of money. Och, by Jabers, things are not what they used to be.”