The ‘Blue Goat’ at Moate was destined once more to receive the same travellers whom we presented to our readers at a very early stage of this history.
‘Not much change here,’ cried Lockwood, as he strode into the little sitting-room and sat down. ‘I miss the old fellow’s picture, that’s all.’
‘Ah! by the way,’ said Walpole to the landlord, ‘you had my Lord Kilgobbin’s portrait up there the last time I came through here.’
‘Yes, indeed, sir,’ said the man, smoothing down his hair and looking apologetically. ‘But the Goats and my lord, who was the Buck Goat, got into a little disagreement, and they sent away his picture, and his lordship retired from the club, and—and—that was the way of it.’
‘A heavy blow to your town, I take it,’ said the major, as he poured out his beer.
‘Well, indeed, your honour, I won’t say it was. You see, sir, times is changed in Ireland. We don’t care as much as we used about the “neighbouring gentry,” as they called them once; and as for the lord, there! he doesn’t spend a hundred a year in Moate.’
‘How is that?’
‘They get what they want by rail from Dublin, your honour; and he might as well not be here at all.’
‘Can we have a car to carry us over to the castle?’ asked Walpole, who did not care to hear more of local grievances.
‘Sure, isn’t my lord’s car waiting for you since two o’clock!’ said the host spitefully, for he was not conciliated by a courtesy that was to lose him a fifteen-shilling fare. ‘Not that there’s much of a horse between the shafts, or that old Daly himself is an elegant coachman,’ continued the host; ‘but they’re ready in the yard when you want them.’