“Was it your honor said that you'd rather have the chickens roast than biled?” said he at last, in a very submissive tone.
“I said nothing of the kind.”
“Ah, it was No. 5 then, and I mistook; I crave your honor's pardon.” Hoping that the chord he had thus touched might vibrate, he stooped down to arrange the turf, and give time for the response, but none came. Mr. M'Cabe gave a faint sigh, but returned to the charge. “When there's the laste taste of south in the wind, there 's no making this chimney draw.”
Not a word of notice acknowledged this remark.
“But it will do finely yet; it's just the outside of the turf is a little wet, and no wonder; seven weeks of rain—glory be to Him that sent it—has nearly desthroyed us.”
Still Conyers vouchsafed no reply.
“And when it begins to rain here, it never laves off. It isn't like in your honor's country. Your honor is English?”
A grunt,—it might be assent, it sounded like malediction.
“'T is azy seen. When your honor came out of the boat, I said, 'Shusy,' says I, 'he's English; and there's a coat they could n't make in Ireland for a king's ransom.'”
“What conveyances leave this for Kilkenny?” asked Conyers, sternly.