“Well, well, so it is, sir; it's just what every one prophesied this many a day,—as if there was much cunning in saying that I 'd be hanged some time or other; why, if they wanted to surprise me, they 'd have tould me I 'd never be taken. You heard how it was, I suppose?”
Daly nodded, and Freney went on:—
“The English horse wouldn't rise to the rail; if I was on the chestnut mare or Black Billy, I would n't be where I am now.”
“I have several things to ask you about, Freney; but first, how I can serve you? You must have counsel in this business.”
“No, sir, I thank you; it's only throwing good money after bad. I'll plead guilty,—it will save time with us all.”
“But you give yourself no chance, man.”
“Faix, I spoiled my chance long ago, Mr. Daly. Do you know, sir,”—here he spoke in a low, determined tone,—“there's not a mail in Ireland I did n't stop at one time or other. There's few country gentlemen I have n't lightened of their guineas; the court wouldn't hold the witnesses against me if I were to stand my trial.”
“With all that, you must still employ a lawyer; these fellows are as crafty in their walk as ever you were in yours. Who will you have? Name the man, and leave the rest to me.”
Freney seemed to deliberate for a few moments, and he threw his eyes down at the heavy irons on his legs, and he gazed at the strong stanchions of the windows, and then said, in a low voice,—
“There's a chap called Hosey M'Garry, in a cellar in Charles Street: he's an ould man with one eye, and not a tooth in his head; but he's the only man that could sarve me now.”