“Oh! Harry Ormond, I’ve brought great news with me for all at Corny Castle; but the ladies are not out of their nests, and King Corny’s Lord knows how far off. Not a soul or body to be had but yourself here, by good luck, and you shall have the first of the news, and the telling of it.”
“Thank you,” said Ormond; “and what is the news?”
“First and foremost,” said O’Tara, “you know birds of a feather flock together. White Connal, though, except for the cock-fighting, I never relished him, was mighty fond of me, and invited me down to Connal’s-town, where I’ve been with him this week—you know that much, I conclude.”
Harry owned he did not.
O’Tara wondered how he could help knowing it. “But so it was; we had a great cock-fight, and White Connal, who knew none of my secrets in the feeding line, was bet out and out, and angry enough he was; and then I offered to change birds with him, and beat him with his own Ginger by my superiority o’ feeding, which he scoffed at, but lookup the bet.”
Ormond sighed with impatience in vain—he was forced to submit, and to go through the whole detail of the cock-fight. “The end of it was, that White Connal was worsted by his own bird, and then mad angry was he. So, then,” continued O’Tara, “to get the triumph again on his side, one way or another, was the thing. I had the advantage of him in dogs, too, for he kept no hounds—you know he is close, and hounds lead to a gentlemanlike expense; but very fine horses he had, I’ll acknowledge, and, Harry Ormond, you can’t but remember that one which he could not manage the day he was out riding here with Miss Dora, and you changed with him.”
“I remember it well,” said Ormond.
“Ay, and he has got reason to remember it now, sure enough.”
“Has he had a fall?” said Ormond, stopping.
“Walk on, can’t ye—keep up, and I’ll tell you all regular.”