“I must find him out at once; put me on his track, and I 'll gie a goold guinea in yer hand, mon. I mean the young rascal no harm; it's a question I want him to answer me, that's all.”
“Well, I'll do my best to find him for you, but I must send down to the country. I'll have to get a man to go beyond Kilcullen.”
“We 'll pay any expense.”
“Sure I know that.” And here Paul began a calculation to himself of distances and charges only audible to Sandy's ears at intervals: “Two and four, and six, with a glass of punch at Naas—half an hour at Tims'—the coach at Athy—ay, that will do it. Have ye the likes of a pair of ould boots or shoes? I 've nothing but them, and the soles is made out of two pamphlets of Roger Connor's, and them's the driest things I could get.”
“I'll gie ye a new pair.”
“You 're the son of Fingal of the Hills, divil a less. And now if ye had a cast-off waistcoat—I don't care for the color—orange or green, blue or yellow, Tros Tyriusve mihiy as we said in Trinity.”
“Ye shall hae a coat to cover your old bones. But let us hae nae mair o' this—when may I expect to see the boy?”
“The evening after next, at eight o'clock, at the corner of Essex Bridge, Capel Street—'on the Rialto'—eh? that's the cue. And now let us join the revellers—per Jove, but I'm dry.” And so saying, the miserable old creature broke from Sandy, and, assisted by the wall, tottered back to the room to his drunken companions, where his voice was soon heard high above the discord and din around him.
And yet this man, so debased and degraded, had been once a scholar of the University, and carried off its prizes from men whose names stood high among the great and valued of the land.