“If you go to Clifden under five hours my name isn't Terry Lynch,” said an old man in rabbitskin breeches.
“I 'll engage, if Barny will give me the blind mare, to drive him there under four.”
“Bother!” said the Rabbitskin, in a tone of contempt.
“But where's the horse?” cried the Corporal.
“Ay, that's it,” said another; “where's the horse?”
“Is there none to be found in the village?” asked Craggs, eagerly.
“Divil a horse, barrin' an ass. Barny's mare has the staggers the last fortnight, and Mrs. Kyle's pony broke his two knees on Tuesday carrying sea-weed up the rocks.”
“But I must go to Clifden; I must be there to-night,” said Craggs.
“It's on foot, then, you'll have to do it,” said the Rabbitskin.
“Lord Glencore's dangerously ill, and needs a doctor,” said the Corporal, bursting out with a piece of most uncommon communicativeness. “Is there none of you will give his horse for such an errand?”