“All about a sellin’ his land on an agreement. Mr. Joyce borryed some money, an’ promised if it wasn’t paid back at a certain time that he would swop lands. Poor Joyce met wid an accident comin’ home with the money from Galway an’ was late, an’ when he got home found that the Grombeen had got the sheriff to sell up his land on to him. Mr. Joyce thried it in the Coorts, but now Murdock has got a decree on to him an’ the poor man’ll to give up his fat lands an’ take the Gombeen’s poor ones instead.”
“That’s bad! when has he to give up?”
“Well, I disremember meself exactly, but Mr. Sutherland will be able to tell ye all about it as ye drive over in the mornin.”
“Where is he now? I should like to see him; it may be my old schoolfellow.”
“Troth, it’s in his bed he is; for he rises mighty arly, I can tell ye.”
After a stroll through the town (so-called) to finish my cigar I went to bed also, for we started early. In the morning, when I came down to my breakfast I found Mr. Sutherland finishing his. It was my old schoolfellow; but from being a slight, pale boy, he had grown into a burly, hale, stalwart man, with keen eyes and a flowing brown beard. The only pallor noticeable was the whiteness of his brow, which was ample and lofty as of old.
We greeted each other cordially, and I felt as if old times had come again, for Dick and I had been great friends at school. When we were on our way I renewed my inquiries about Shleenanaher and its inhabitants. I began by asking Sutherland as to what brought him there. He answered:—
“I was just about to ask you the same question. ‘What brings you here?’”
I felt a difficulty in answering as freely as I could have wished, for I knew that Andy’s alert ears were close to us, so I said:—
“I have been paying some visits along the West Coast, and I thought I would take the opportunity on my way home of investigating a very curious phenomenon of whose existence I became casually acquainted on my way here—a shifting bog.”