“Well, Lambert Brown,” said the boy, as that worthy gentleman rode off, “it’s you’re the raal blackguard—and it’s well all the counthry knows you: sorrow be your bed this night; it’s little the poor’ll grieve for you, when you’re stretched, or the rich either, for the matther of that.”
Very different was the reception Bingham Blake got, as he drove up with his tandem and tax-cart: half-a-dozen had kept themselves idle, each in the hope of being the lucky individual to come in for Bingham’s shilling.
“Och, Mr Bingham, shure I’m first,” roared one fellow.
But the first, as he styled himself, was soon knocked down under the wheels of the cart by the others.
“Mr Blake, thin—Mr Blake, darlint—doesn’t ye remimber the promise you guv me?”
“Mr Jerry, Mr Jerry, avick,”—this was addressed to the brother—“spake a word for me; do, yer honour; shure it was I come all the way from Teddy Mahony’s with the breeches this morning, God bless ’em, and the fine legs as is in ’em.”
But they were all balked, for Blake had his servant there.
“Get out, you blackguards!” said he, raising his tandem whip, as if to strike them. “Get out, you robbers! Are you going to take the cart and horses clean away from me? That mare’ll settle some of ye, if you make so free with her! she’s not a bit too chary of her hind feet. Get out of that, I tell you;” and he lightly struck with the point of his whip the boy who had Lambert Brown’s horse.
“Ah, Mr Bingham,” said, the boy, pretending to rub the part very hard, “you owe me one for that, anyhow, and it’s you are the good mark for it, God bless you.”
“Faix,” said another, “one blow from your honour is worth two promises from Lambert Brown, any way.”