“Why, if you don’t already know,” replied Sherman, “I would not have you know for twenty pounds, for you would be sure to publish it. However, now your curiosity is excited, you would be certain to find it all out, if you had to hire a post-chaise, and ride there on purpose; so I may as well tell you.”
“Do tell me,” I replied, “for I confess my curiosity is excited, and I am unable to guess why you are so angry; for I know you love to see castles, and that pleasure you surely have enjoyed, for I caught a glimpse of one myself.”
“No, you have not seen a castle to-day, nor I either!” exclaimed Sherman.
“What on earth was it, then?” I asked.
“A thundering old lime-kiln!” exclaimed Sherman; “and I only wish I could pitch that infernal Irish coachman into it while it was under full blast!”
It was many a long day before Sherman heard the last of the lime-kiln; in fact, this trick of the Irish coachman rendered him cautious in making inquiries of strangers.
One day we rode to Donnybrook, the place so much celebrated for its fairs and its black eyes; for it would be quite out of character for Pat to attend a fair without having a flourish of the shillelah, and a scrimmage which would result in a few broken heads and bloody noses.
Near Donnybrook we saw something on the summit of a hill which appeared like a round stone tower. It was probably sixty feet in circumference and twenty-five feet high.
“I would like to know what that is,” said Sherman.
I advised him to inquire of the first coachman that came along, but, with a forced smile, he declined my advice.