“Cary and Moore’s bank, perhaps?” said I, having heard that in days long past some such names had failed in Cork for a large amount.
“So it is; your honor’s right,” cried the postilion; while Mike, standing up on the box, and menacing the house with his clinched fist, shouted out at the very top of his voice:
“Oh, bad luck to your cobwebbed windows and iron railings! Sure, it’s my father’s son ought to hate the sight of you.”
“I hope, Mike, your father never trusted his property in such hands?”
“I don’t suspect he did, your honor. He never put much belief in the banks; but the house cost him dear enough without that.”
As I could not help feeling some curiosity in this matter, I pressed Mickey for an explanation.
“But maybe it’s not Cary and Moore’s, after all; and I may be cursing dacent people.”
Having reassured his mind by telling him that the reservation he made by the doubt would tell in their favor should he prove mistaken, he afforded me the following information:—
“When my father—the heavens be his bed!—was in the ‘Cork,’ they put him one night on guard at that same big house you just passed, av it was the same; but if it wasn’t that, it was another. And it was a beautiful fine night in August and the moon up, and plenty of people walking about, and all kinds of fun and devilment going on,—drinking and dancing and everything.
“Well, my father was stuck up there with his musket, to walk up and down, and not say, ‘God save you kindly,’ or the time of day or anything, but just march as if he was in the barrack-yard; and by reason of his being the man he was he didn’t like it half, but kept cursing and swearing to himself like mad when he saw pleasant fellows and pretty girls going by, laughing and joking.