“How is that, Kerry? Tell me at once, man!”
“It's a fine brown beast Lanty Lawler has—a strapping four-year-old, as likely a weight-carrier as ever I seen—that's what he's after—sorra he in it. I obsarved him, on Friday, taking him over the big fences beyant the whin-field—and I measured his tracks—and, may I never die in sin, if he didn't stride nineteen feet over the yallow ditch.”
“Do you know what he's asking for him, Kerry?” cried the old man, eagerly.
“His weight in goold, I heerd say; for the captain, up at 'the Lodge,' will give him his own price for any beast will make a charger—and three hundred guineas Lanty expects for the same horse. Ayeh! he's a play-actor, is Lanty—and knows how to rub the gentlemen down with a damp wisp.”
“And you think that's it, Kerry?”
“I'll take the vestment it's not far off it. I never heerd Master Mark give a cheer out of him going over a fence, that he hadn't a conceit out of the beast under him. 'Whoop!' says he, throwing up his whip hand, 'this way.' 'Your heart's in him,' says I, 'and 'tis a murther he isn't your own.'”
“You may leave me, Kerry,” said the old man, sighing heavily, “'tis getting near twelve o'clock.”
“Good night, sir, and a safe rest to you.”
“Wait a moment—stay a few minutes. Are they in the drawing-room still?”
“Yes, sir; I heerd Miss Kate singing as I came up the stairs.”