Mead, who was opening a bottle of the blue-seal port—an operation which he always conducted with his own hands—listened while French poured into his attentive ears the tale of his woes.
"The blackguards!" said the old man when French had finished. "And do you mean to say you've gone off and left the horse behind you for these chaps to maim? Maybe——"
"Oh! Moriarty is there," replied French. "He's sleeping in the stable, and Andy is sleeping in the loft. But it's on my mind that some dirty trick will be played before we get the colt to England, and that's why I've called to see you. Look here; you've got that place for your polo ponies down in Sligo. Will you let me take Garryowen over there and finish his training?"
"You mean my place at Ballyhinton?"
"Yes."
"Sure, I've sold it. Didn't you know?"
"Sold it!"
"Eight months ago."
"Good heavens!" said French. "That does me. And I've come all the way to Dublin to see you about it. Was there ever such luck!"
"You see," said Mead, "I'm not as young as I was. Bryan—the chap I had there—was swindling me right and left, so I sold off, lock, stock, and barrel. I'm sorry."