Andy hastened to put matters right—he evidently did not want to lose his day’s hire on the morrow:—
“Yer ’an’rs! ye may take me wurrd for it—there’s a bog beyant at Knocknacar which’ll intherest yez intirely—I remimber it meself a lot higher up the mountain whin I was a spalpeen—an’ it’s been crawlin’ down iver since. It’s a mighty quare shpot intirely!”
This settled the matter, and we arranged forthwith to start early on the following morning for Knocknacar, Andy, before he left, having a nightcap—out of a tumbler.
We were astir fairly early in the morning, and having finished a breakfast sufficiently substantial to tide us over till dinner time, we started on our journey. The mare was in good condition for work, the road was level and the prospect fine, and altogether we enjoyed our drive immensely. As we looked back we could see Knockcalltecrore rising on the edge of the coast away to our right, and seemingly surrounded by a network of foam-girt islands, for a breeze was blowing freshly from the south-west.
At the foot of the mountain—or rather, hill—there was a small, clean-looking sheebeen. Here Andy stopped and put up the mare; then he brought us up a narrow lane bounded by thick hedges of wild briar to where we could see the bog which was the object of our visit. Dick’s foot was still painful, so I had to give him an arm, as on yesterday. We crossed over two fields, from which the stones had been collected and placed in heaps. The land was evidently very rocky, for here and there—more especially in the lower part—the grey rock cropped up in places. At the top of the farthest field, Andy pointed out an isolated rock rising sharply from the grass.
“Look there, yer ’an’rs; whin I remimber first, that rock was as far aff from the bog as we are now from the boreen—an’ luk at it now! why, the bog is close to it, so it is.” He then turned and looked at a small heap of stones. “Murther! but there is a quare thing. Why that heap, not a year ago, was as high as the top iv that rock. Begor, it’s bein’ buried, it is!”
Dick looked quite excited as he turned to me and said:—
“Why, Art, old fellow! here is the very thing we were talking about. This bog is an instance of the gradual changing of the locality of a bog by the filtration of its water through the clay beds resting on the bed-rock. I wonder if the people here will let me make some investigations! Andy, who owns this land?”
“Oh, I can tell yer ’an’r that well enough; it’s Misther Moriarty from Knockaltecrore. Him, surr,” turning to me, “that ye seen at Widda Kelligan’s that night in the shtorm.”
“Does he farm it himself?”