Rafferty was a man of genius, who had started as a helper and odd job person, and had risen to the position of factotum. He had ousted the Scotch gardener and insinuated a relation of his own in his place. There was scarcely a servant about the estate that was not a relation of Rafferty’s. Philip Berknowles had put up with a lot from Rafferty simply because Rafferty was an invaluable person in his way when not crossed. Everything went smoothly when the factotum was not interfered with. Cross him and there were immediate results ranging from ill-groomed horses to general unrest. He was a dark individual, half groom, half game-keeper in dress, a “wicked-looking divil,” according to the description of his enemies, and an exceedingly foxy-looking individual in the eyes of Pinckney.
“Rafferty,” said Mr. Hennessey, “I want to show this gentleman round. Let’s see the stables.”
Rafferty touched his cap and led the way, showing first the stalls and boxes where four or five horses were stabled, and then leading the way through the coach-house to the path from which opened the kitchen gardens.
They were immense and walled in with red brick, capable, one might fancy, of supplying the wants of three or four houses the size of Kilgobbin.
Pinckney noted this fact, also that the home farm to which the kitchen gardens led was apparently a prosperous and going little concern, with its fowls and chickens penned or loose, styes filled with grunting pigs, and turkeys gobbling and spreading their tails in the sun.
“Who looks after all this?” asked Pinckney.
“I do, sor,” replied Rafferty.
“What are the takings?”
“I beg your pardon, sor?”
“The profits, I mean. You sell these things, don’t you?”