"Are you follyin' that gintleman?" inquired the stranger, with his pipe indicating O'Connor, "that gintleman that the masther is talking to?"
"I am so," rejoined Larry promptly, "an' a good gintleman he is; an' that's your masther there. What sort is he?"
"Oh, good enough, as masthers goes—no way surprisin' one way or th' other."
"Where are you goin' to?" pursued Larry.
"I never axed, bedad," rejoined the man, "only to folly on, wherever he goes—an' divil a hair I care where that is. What way are you two goin'?"
"To Dublin, to be sure," rejoined Larry. "I wisht we wor there now. What the divil makes him ride so unaiqual—sometimes cantherin', and other times mostly walkin'—it's mighty nansinsical, so it is."
"By gorra, I don't know, anless fancy alone," rejoined the stranger.
"Here's your pipe," continued he, after some pause, "an' I thank you kindly, misther—misther—how's this they call you?"
"Misther Larry Toole is the name I was christened by," rejoined the gentleman so interrogated.
"An' a rale illegant name it is," replied the stranger. "The Tooles is a royal family, an' may the Lord restore them to their rights."