‘Serious, I believe they are. He is cut cruelly about the face and head, and his body bruised all over. The finest peasantry have a taste for kicking with strong brogues on them, Mr. Kearney, that cannot be equalled.’
‘I wish with all my heart they’d kick the English out of Ireland!’ cried Kearney, with a savage energy.
‘‘Faith! if they go on governing us in the present fashion, I do not say I’ll make any great objection. Eh, Adams?’
‘Maybe so!’ was the slow and very guttural reply, as the fat man crossed his hands on his waistcoat.
‘I’m sick of them all, Whigs and Tories,’ said Kearney.
Is not every Irish gentleman sick of them, Mr. Kearney? Ain’t you sick of being cheated and cajoled, and ain’t we sick of being cheated and insulted? They seek to conciliate you by outraging us. Don’t you think we could settle our own differences better amongst ourselves? It was Philpot Curran said of the fleas in Manchester, that if they’d all pulled together, they’d have pulled him out of bed. Now, Mr. Kearney, what if we all took to “pulling together?”’
‘We cannot get rid of the notion that we’d be out-jockeyed,’ said Kearney slowly.
‘We know,’ cried the other, ‘that we should be out-numbered, and that is worse. Eh, Adams?’
‘Ay!’ sighed Adams, who did not desire to be appealed to by either side.
‘Now we’re alone here, and no eavesdropper near us, tell me fairly, Kearney, are you better because we are brought down in the world? Are you richer—are you greater—are you happier?’