“Maybe you’d have a chaise? There’s an elegant one at M’Cassidy’s.”
“Sure, the blind mare’s in foal,” said the bow oar. “The devil a step she can go out of a walk; so, your honor, take Tim Riley’s car, and you’ll get up cheap. Not that you care for money; but he’s going up at eight o’clock with two young ladies.”
“Oh, be-gorra!” said the other, “and so he is. And faix, ye might do worse; they’re nice craytures.”
“Well,” said I, “your advice seems good; but perhaps they might object to my company.”
“I’ve no fear; they’re always with the officers. Sure, the Miss Dalrymples—”
“The Miss Dalrymples! Push ahead, boys; it must be later than I thought. We must get the chaise; I can’t wait.”
Ten minutes more brought us to land.
My arrangements were soon made, and as my impatience to press forward became greater the nearer I drew to my destination, I lost not a moment.
The yellow chaise—sole glory of Cove—was brought forth at my request; and by good fortune, four posters which had been down the preceding evening from Cork to some gentleman’s seat near were about to return. These were also pressed into my service; and just as the first early riser of the little village was drawing his curtain to take a half-closed eye-glance upon the breaking morning, I rattled forth upon my journey at a pace which, could I only have secured its continuance, must soon have terminated my weary way.
Beautiful as the whole line of country is, I was totally unconscious of it; and even Mike’s conversational powers, divided as they were between myself and the two postilions, were fruitless in arousing me from the deep pre-occupation of my mind by thoughts of home.