“They’ve got him at the Big House, shut up in the cowl-cellar I hear,” said Mr Mullins.
“Faith, if they don’t relase him it won’t be a cowl-cellar long,” replied the sweep.
“It was Con who let him in, they say.”
“Faith, then, it’ll be the worse for Con, I’m thinking, when they let him out.”
“Begob, yes,” said Mr Mullins.
Mr Stone, the “cow-doctor” (he doctored horses too, and sheep, but cows were his speciality), riding by on an animal that recalled nothing so much as Wallenstein’s[[2]] horse, drew up.
“So Paddy’s took,” said Mr Stone.
“So we was sayin’,” replied Mr Mullins.
“What’ll he get, at all?” asked Mr Stone, of no one in particular.
“Seven year, if he gets an hour,” replied the sweep.