“Oh, wirra! wirra!” cried Kerry, whose apprehensions of how much law might be had for the money, made him tremble all over—“that's what I get for tramping the roads all night after the pony.”
“Where's the pony—where's the gig?” called out Roach, suddenly reminded by material interests, that he had more at stake than mere vengeance.
“The beast is snug in the stable—that's where he is, eating a peck of oats—last year's corn—divil a less.”
“And the gig?”
“Oh, the gig, is it? Musha, we have the gig too,” responded Kerry, but with a reluctance that could not escape the shrewd questioner.
“Where is it, then?” said Roach, impatiently.
“Where would it be, but in the yard?—we're going to wash it.”
The Doctor did not wait for the conclusion of this reply, but hastening from the room, passed down the few stairs that led towards the old court-yard, followed by Sir Archy and Kerry, the one, eager to witness the termination of the scene—the other, muttering in a very different spirit—“Oh, but it's now we'll have the divil to pay!”
As soon as Roach arrived at the court-yard, he turned his eyes on every side, to seek his conveyance; but although there were old harrows, broken ploughs, and disabled wheel-barrows in numbers, nothing was there, that bore any resemblance to what he sought.
“Where is it?” said he, turning to Kerry, with a look of exasperation that defied all attempt to assuage by mere “blarney”—“where is it?”