“‘Not so fast, neither,’ says the bailiff—‘here’s my writ for seizing the horse.’
“‘Och,’ says I, ‘you wouldn’t be so cruel.’
“‘That’s all my eye,’ says he, seizing the garrone, while I mounted Naboclish, and rode him off deliberately.”
“Ha! ha! ha!—That was neat, I grant you, Terry,” said Lord Clonbrony. “But what a dolt of a born ignoramus must that sheriff’s fellow have been, not to know Naboclish when he saw him!”
“But stay, my lord—stay, Miss Nugent—I have more for you,” following her wherever she moved—“I did not let him off so, even. At the cant, I bid and bid against them for the pretended Naboclish, till I left him on their hands for 500 guineas—ha! ha! ha!—was not that famous?”
“But,” said Miss Nugent, “I cannot believe you are in earnest, Sir Terence—Surely this would be—”
“What?—out with it, my dear Miss Nugent.”
“I am afraid of offending you.”
“You can’t, my dear, I defy you—say the word that came to the tongue’s end; it’s always the best.”
“I was going to say, swindling,” said the young lady, colouring deeply.