“Yes, sir; his window is next to Mr Boxall’s, so it’s how to get the dogcart out of the coach-house, and the ould mare out of the stable, and the two hitched together and out of the yard that’s thrublin’ me.”
“Yes,” said Mr Fanshawe, “that’s the rub, for if the General heard us and looked out of the window, we’d be done for.”
“I know, sir!” said Patsy.
“Yes?”
“We can lay down straw—straw the yard right to the corner where you can get on the turf. Larry Lyburn will do it between twelve and wan o’clock in the mornin’, and you can start be two.”
“Begad, Patsy’s that’s not a bad idea; they do it in London in the streets, before houses, when people are sick. But can Larry be trusted?”
“Larry’s to be thrusted wid everything but drink, sir,” said Patsy. “He’ll straw the yard, and harness the ould mare and all, if I give him the word.”
“Well, I’ll give him a couple of sovereigns if he does the thing properly; you can tell him that.”
Mr Fanshawe paused and looked around him. They had reached the edge of a large pool with sedgy banks; the waters of the pool reflected the cold light of the winter sunset.
“Look, sir!” cried Patsy.