“Why, then,” continued Sir Terence, following Miss Nugent to the table, where she was sealing letters—“I must tell you how I sarved that same man on another occasion, and got the victory, too.”
No general officer could talk of his victories, or fight his battles o’er again, with more complacency than Sir Terence O’Fay recounted his civil exploits.
“Now I’ll tell you, Miss Nugent. There was a footman in the family, not an Irishman, but one of your powdered English scoundrels that ladies are so fond of having hanging to the backs of their carriages; one Fleming he was, that turned spy, and traitor, and informer, went privately and gave notice to the creditors where the plate was hid in the thickness of the chimney; but if he did, what happened? Why, I had my counter-spy, an honest little Irish boy, in the creditor’s shop, that I had secured with a little douceur of usquebaugh; and he outwitted, as was natural, the English lying valet, and gave us notice, just in the nick, and I got ready for their reception; and, Miss Nugent, I only wish you’d seen the excellent sport we had, letting them follow the scent they got; and when they were sure of their game, what did they find?—Ha! ha! ha!—dragged out, after a world of labour, a heavy box of—a load of brick-bats; not an item of my friend’s plate, that was all snug in the coal-hole, where them dunces never thought of looking for it—Ha! ha! ha!”
“But come, Terry,” cried Lord Clonbrony, “I’ll pull down your pride.—How finely, another time, your job of the false ceiling answered in the hall. I’ve heard that story, and have been told how the sheriff’s fellow thrust his bayonet up through your false plaster, and down came tumbling the family plate—hey! Terry?—That hit cost your friend, Lord Every-body-knows-who, more than your head’s worth, Terry.”
“I ask your pardon, my lord, it never cost him a farthing.”
“When he paid 7000l. for the plate, to redeem it?”
“Well! and did not I make up for that at the races of ——? The creditors learned that my lord’s horse, Naboclish, was to run at —— races; and, as the sheriff’s officer knew he dare not touch him on the race-ground, what does he do, but he comes down early in the morning on the mail-coach, and walks straight down to the livery stables. He had an exact description of the stables, and the stall, and the horse’s body clothes.
“I was there, seeing the horse taken care of; and, knowing the cut of the fellow’s jib, what does I do, but whips the body clothes off Naboclish, and claps them upon a garrone, that the priest would not ride.
“In comes the bailiff—‘Good morrow to you, sir,’ says I, leading out of the stable my lord’s horse, with an ould saddle and bridle on.
“‘Tim Neal,’ says I to the groom, who was rubbing down the garrone’s heels, ‘mind your hits to-day, and wee’l wet the plate to-night.”