"Do I know Misther Giveen's ould pony?" creaked Doolan. "Sure, who'd know her better? Do I know Misther Giveen's ould pony? Sure, I knew her mother before she was born. An ould skewbal', she was, till Micky Meehan battered her to death dhrivin' roun' the counthryside, wid that ould cart he got from Buck Sheelan of the inn, before he died of the dhrink, and dhrunk he was when he sould it."
"Bother Buck Sheelan! Can the old pony get Mr. Giveen to the station by eleven?"
"D'you mane, can it get him from his house to the station, sorr?"
"Yes."
"Well, sorr, it all dipinds. She's a rockit to go if she's in the mind for it; but if she's set aginst goin', you may lather the lights out of her, and she'll only land you in the ditch. But if she's aisy in her mind and agrayable, faith! I wouldn't wonder if she could, for that ould clothesbasket of Misther Giveen's doesn't weigh more'n a feather."
"Curse him and his clothesbasket!" cried French. "Whip up!"
To be opposed by a villain is not nearly so vexing as to be thwarted by a fool, and the vision of Dick Giveen in his basket carriage, soft, malevolent and pursuing, filled French with such a depth of rage that had he possessed a gun his better nature would certainly have made him fling his ammunition away over the nearest hedge so as to be out of the way of temptation.
"Look!" said Miss Grimshaw, "isn't that smoke away over there—Cloyne! We'll soon be there now, and there is no use in worrying. If he does follow us, we'll manage to give him the slip at Tullagh."
"That'll mean the whole lot of us, servants and all, will have to get out at Tullagh, and lose the train and stay the night; and then we're not sure of escaping him. He'll stick to us like a burr. You don't know Dick Giveen. Who the divil ever invented relations?"
Miss Grimshaw could not answer Mr. French's question as to who invented relations which many a man has, no doubt, asked, and no more was said till the long, dreary street of Cloyne, destitute of life and colour, lay before them.