“Here comes Billy the Buck,” said Mr Stone; “maybe he’ll have news. Any news, Billy?”
Billy, amongst his other avocations, served as a sort of living newspaper. His grandfather had been a gabberlunzy man, and the news-bearing property was in him, just as the art of pointing is in a pointer or retrieving in a spaniel. That his news was mostly lies only showed that he was an artist in his profession. (Item.—He never told lies about foxes.)
“There’s a fox an a vixin in the siven acres,” replied Billy, drawing up like a horse.
A roar of laughter greeted this information. Billy, for once, was out of it.
“What the divil are yiz brayin’ about?” asked Billy.
“Where’s your ears?” asked Mr Mahony.
“On me head,” replied Billy—“no need to ax where yours is. What are yiz gettin’ at?”
“Haven’t you heard of Paddy Murphy?”
“What ails Paddy Murphy?”
“He’s locked up in the cowl-hole of the Big House,” replied Mr Mahony.