"Seein' that the Rat bate ye both," said Andy, "it is me ye should be matchin' with. Bate ye aisy, too."
"An' if ye bate him, why was ye not fust?" thundered Mr. Rooney stormily.
Andy, becoming reserved, said that was his bizness, and lapsed into silence.
"It would be like the likes of his birth an' breedin' to offer ye a shillin' to pull off," said Rooney bitterly; "but I did not think ye're father's son would do the dirty thrick to me father's, Andy Casey, for dirty pince."
"I will take me Bible oath that he niver mentioned dirty pince," said Andy, his face scarlet, "nor any pince."
Darby wondered how that oath would be recorded.
"Then what med ye?" Mr. Rooney scratched his chin, shaven two days before.
"It was time for me to go back to me dogs," said Andy coldly. "An' if Miss Gheena gives me the pony, I'll match ye around me own place an' down Carty's Hill an' around to me uncle's, four miles across the counthry, any day ye likes."
As the proposed course would include about twenty sharp bends to avoid bogs, the crossing of a ravine, and a collection of completely unsafe fences, Rooney replied: "Match where ye are," and left Andy, to again reproach Darby.
"Bribery an' corruption the same as ye'd read off the Holy Bible," he said sourly, "an' ye wouldn't let me spheak. I that ran fair an' honest with two falls an' a run out—an' that's prepared to back meself for twenty pounds for a match. There's more than a cup on it," he added, whimpering. "There's Janey O'Dea that is wavering between us, an' his ould father, chattin' now of the rale silver cup, an' inclined towards Rourke."