“Oh, not at all,” O’Daly made brisk reply. “It’s part of my hereditary duty to accompany you on all your travels and explorations and incursions, to keep a record of the same, and properly celebrate thim in song and history. The last two O’Mahonys betwixt ourselves, did nothing but dhrink at the pig-market at Dunmanway once a week, and dhrink at Mike Leary’s shebeen over at Ballydivlin the remainding days of the week, and dhrink here at home on Sundays. To say the laste, this provided only indifferent opportunities for a bard. But plase the Lord bether times have come, now.”
Malachy had cleared the dishes from the board, and now brought forward a big square decanter, a sugar-bowl, a lemon fresh cut in slices, three large glasses and one small one. O’Daly at this lifted a steaming copper kettle from the crane over the fire, and began in a formally ceremonious and deliberate manner the brewing of the punch. The O’Mahony watched the operation with vigilance. Then clay pipes and tobacco were produced, and Malachy left the room.
“What I wanted to ask about,” said The O’Mahony, after a pause, and between sips from his fragrant glass, “was this: That lawyer, Carmody, didn’t seem to know much about what the estate was worth, or how the money came in, or anything else. All he had to do, he said, was to snoop around and find out where I was. All the rest was in your hands. What I want to know is jest where I stand.”
“Well, sir, that’s not hard to demonsthrate. You’re The O’Mahony of Muirisc. You own in freehold the best part of this barony—some nine thousand acres. You have eight-and-thirty tinants by lasehold, at a total rintal of close upon four hundred pounds; turbary rights bring in rising twinty pounds; the royalty on the carrigeens bring ten pounds; your own farms, with the pigs, the barley, the grazing and the butter, produce annually two hundred pounds—a total of six hundred and thirty pounds, if I’m not mistaken.”
“How much is that in dollars?”
“About three thousand one hundred and fifty dollars, sir.”
“And that comes in each year?” said The O’Mahony, straightening himself in his chair.
“It does that,” said O’Daly; then, after a pause, he added dryly: “and goes out again.”
“How d’ye mean?”
“Sir, the O’Mahonys are a proud and high-minded race, and must live accordingly. And aich of your ancestors, to keep up his dignity, borrowed as much money on the blessed land as ever he could raise, till the inthrest now ates up the greater half of the income. If you net two hundred pounds a year—that is to say, one thousand dollars—you’re doing very well indeed. In the mornin’ I’ll be happy to show you all me books and Mrs. Fergus O’Mahony.”