I ventured to ask a question:—
“How do your lands lie compared with Mr. Murdock’s?”
There was bitterness in his tone as he answered, in true Irish fashion:
“Do you mane me ould land, or me new?”
“The lands that were—that ought still to be yours,” I answered.
He was pleased at the reply, and his face softened as he replied:—
“Well, the way of it is this. We two owns the West side of the hill between us. Murdock’s land—I’m spakin’ iv them as they are, till he gets possession iv mine—lies at the top iv the hill; mine lies below. My land is the best bit on the mountain, while the Gombeen’s is poor soil, with only a few good patches here and there. Moreover, there is another thing. There is a bog which is high up the hill, mostly on his houldin’, but my land is free from bog, except one end of the big bog, an’ a stretch of dry turf, the best in the counthry, an’ wid’ enough turf to last for a hundhred years, it’s that deep.”
Old Dan joined in:—
“Thrue enough! that bog of the Grombeen’s isn’t much use anyhow. It’s rank and rotten wid wather. Whin it made up its mind to sthay, it might have done betther!”
“The bog? Made up its mind to stay! What on earth do you mean?” I asked. I was fairly puzzled.