“Well, they are all employed, at least; and, as the French say, that's always something. And who are the playmen now?”
“The old set. Tom Whaley and Lord Drogheda—your old friend, Giles Daxon—Sandy Moore——”
“Ah, what of Sandy? They told me he won heavily at the October races.”
“So he did—beggared the whole club at hazard, and was robbed of the money the night after, when coming up through Naas.”
“Ha! I never heard of that, Billy. Let us hear all about it.”
“It's soon told, sir. Sandy, who never tries economy till he has won largely, and is reckless enough of money when on the verge of ruin, heard, on leaving the course, that a strange gentleman was waiting to get some one to join him in a chaise up to Dublin. Sandy at once sent the waiter to open the negociations, which were soon concluded, and the stranger appeared—a fat, unwieldy-looking old fellow, with a powdered wig and green goggles—not a very sporting style of travelling companion; but no matter for that, he had a dark chestnut mare with him, that looked like breeding, and with strength enough for any weight over a country.
“'She'll follow the chaise—my son taught her that trick,' said the old fellow, as he hobbled out of the inn, and took his place in the carriage.
“Well, in jumped Sandy, all his pockets bursting with guineas, and a book of notes crammed into his hat—very happy at his adventure, but prouder of saving half the posting than all besides.
“'Keep to your ten miles an hour, my lad, or not a sixpence,' said the old gentleman, and he drew his night-cap over his eyes, and was soon snoring away as sound as need be.
“That was the last was seen of him, however, for when the postillion drew up for fresh horses at Carrick's, they found Sandy alone in the chaise, with his hands tied behind him, and his mouth gagged. His companion and the dark chestnut were off, and all the winnings along with them.”