“Yes, I am Mr. Thompson of —— Lodge.”
The poor girl, red as a peony, looked with a terrified air at the fine leg of mutton she kept turning in her hands, as though it were already on the spit, to give herself courage.
“The truth is, sir,” she began, almost in tears, “I cannot send it to you, I made a mistake, I forgot that it is already sold!”
“Very well,” said Mr. Thompson, “I understand,” and he immediately left the shop.
I relate the scene word for word as it happened. I could only declare myself vanquished. Decidedly the accounts I have heard are not exaggerated. However, Mr. Thompson declares that, at all events, so far as he is concerned, things are improving a little. At first he could not get his horses shod unless the Government sent him a portable forge from the artillery. Afterwards he discovered a farrier living at L——, several miles away. I asked myself what the shoes of horses, which had to go many miles before they reached a forge, ought to be made of? Under the circumstances, I would rather have had them without shoes. But a few weeks ago another farrier, who lives only nine or ten miles away, sent him word that he would shoe them provided the horses came to him at night.
“And therefore,” he continued, “Tim’s story rather surprises me, for several times lately they have consented to supply beer for the house. Tim says that it was refused to him to-day. Something new must have happened.”
At this moment we passed an individual adorned with long whiskers and a moustache, who, on seeing us, immediately looked the other way, with much affectation.
“Oh,” said Mr. Thompson, “I understand it all now. I have the honour of introducing you to our member of Parliament, the Honourable Mr. X——, beer and spirit merchant, and naturally an outrageous Land Leaguer. Since he attained this honour, one of his nephews keeps his shop. The nephew is rather indifferent, we can manage him. But it appears as though the uncle has come to see his constituents, he wishes to get a little popularity at my expense, and poor Tim must go without his whisky.”
—— Lodge, which we reached in a few minutes, is a pretty house situated in the middle of a fair-sized park, crossed by a river. Under the windows of the house it forms a large piece of water covered with water lilies, and shaded by superb trees, on which a great number of herons were nesting, making an incredible noise. Two young girls of sixteen and seventeen stopped their game of lawn-tennis when they saw us, and ran to greet their brother, with whom they, were passing their holidays. Naturally, we at once told them about the incident at the butcher’s. The young ladies severely criticised pretty Miss McCarthy’s conduct. But, in reality, in spite of their genuine hatred for Mr. Parnell, it appeared to me that boycottage was not one of the least attractions of their sojourn here. It entails a Swiss Family Robinson kind of life which is full of amusing incidents.