“Does he know anything of Dempsey, do you think?” said Nickie, in a whisper to his follower.
“Not he,” muttered the other, scornfully; “the crayture seems half a nat'ral.” Then, in a voice pitched purposely loud, he said, “Do you happen to know one Dempsey in these parts?”
“Paul Dempsey?” added Nickie.
“A little, short man, with a turned-up nose, that walks with his shoulders far back and his hands spread out? Ay, I know him well; he dined here one day with the master, and sure enough he made the company laugh hearty!”
“I 'd be glad to meet him, if he 's as pleasant as you say,” said Nickie, slyly.
“There's nothing easier, then,” said Tate; “since the boarding-house is closed there at Ballintray, he's up in Coleraine for the winter. I hear he waits for the Dublin mail, at M'Grotty's door, every evening, to see the passengers, and that he has a peep at the way-bill before the agent himself.”
“Has he so many acquaintances that he is always on the look out for one?”
“Faix, if they'd let him,” cried Tate, laughing, “I believe he 'd know every man, woman, and child in Ireland. For curiosity, he beats all ever I seen.”
As Tate spoke, a sudden draught of wind seemed to penetrate the chamber,—at least the canoe and its party shook perceptibly.
“We'll have a rare night of it,” said Nickie, drawing nearer to the fire. Then resuming, added, “And you say I'll have no difficulty to find him?”