"'Faith, then, I won't dhrive on and lave my brother here on the road."
"You rascally wappawee!" exclaimed Furlong.
"See, Andy," said Micky Doolan; "will you get up and dhrive him, while I stay with Pether?"
"To be sure I will," said Andy; "where is he goin'?"
"To the Squire's," said Mick; "and when you lave him there, make haste back, and I'll dhrive Pether home."
Andy mounted into Mick's saddle; and although the traveller "pwotested" against it, and threatened "pwoceedings" and "magistrates," Mick was unmoved in his brotherly love. As a last remonstrance, Furlong exclaimed, "And pewhaps this fellow can't wide, and don't know the woad."
"Is it not know the road to the Squire's?—wow! wow!" said Andy. "It's I that'll rattle you there in no time, your honour."
"Well, wattle away then!" said the enraged traveller, as he threw himself back in the chaise, cursing all the postilions in Ireland.
Now, it was to Squire O'Grady's that Mr. Furlong wanted to go; but in the confusion of the moment the name of O'Grady never once was mentioned; and with the title of "Squire," Andy never associated another idea than that of his late master, Mr. Egan.
Mr. Furlong, it has been stated, was an official of Dublin Castle, and had been despatched on electioneering business to the country. He was related to a gentleman of the same name who held a lucrative post under government, and was well known as an active agent in all affairs requiring what in Ireland was called "Castle influence;" and this, his relative, was now despatched, for the first time, on a similar employment. By the way, while his name is before one, a little anecdote may be appropriately introduced, illustrative of the wild waggery prevailing in the streets of Dublin in those days.