“Thank God, master dear,” said Ned, who was now perfectly awakened—“it’s yourself, any how. There never was a gentleman in the whole country ever did so good a turn to a poor man as your honour has been after doing to me: the Lord reward you for that same. Oh! but strike me again, and let me feel that it is yourself, master dear;—may whisky be my poison—”
“It will be your poison, you good-for-nothing scoundrel,” said Mr. Gumbleton.
“Well, then, may whiskey be my poison,” said Ned, “if ’twas not I was—in the blackest of misfortunes, and they were before me, whichever way I turned ’twas no matter. Your honour sent me last night, sure enough, with Modderaroo to mister Falvey’s—I don’t deny it—why should I? for reason enough I have to remember what happened.”
“Ned, my man,” said Mr. Gumbleton, “I’ll listen to none of your excuses: just take the mare into the stable and yourself off, for I vow—”
“Begging your honour’s pardon,” said Ned, earnestly, “for interrupting your honour; but, master, master! make no vows—they are bad things: I never made but one in all my life, which was, to drink nothing at all for a year and a day, and ’tis myself repinted of it for the clean twelvemonth after. But if your honour would only listen to reason: I’ll just take in the poor baste, and if your honour don’t pardon me this one time may I never see another day’s luck or grace.”
“I know you, Ned,” said Mr. Gumbleton. “Whatever your luck has been, you never had any grace to lose: but I don’t intend discussing the matter with you. Take in the mare, sir.”
Ned obeyed, and his master saw him to the stables. Here he reiterated his commands to quit, and Ned Sheehy’s excuse for himself began. That it was heard uninterruptedly is more than I can affirm; but as interruptions, like explanations, spoil a story, we must let Ned tell it his own way.
“No wonder your honour,” said he, “should be a bit angry—grand company coming to the house and all, and no regular serving-man to wait, only long Jem; so I don’t blame your honour the least for being fretted like; but when all’s heard, you will see that no poor man is more to be pitied for last night than myself. Fin Mac Coul never went through more in his born days than I did, though he was a great joint (giant,) and I only a man.
“I had not rode half a mile from the house, when it came on, as your honour must have perceived clearly, mighty dark all of a sudden, for all the world as if the sun had tumbled down plump out of the fine clear blue sky. It was not so late, being only four o’clock at the most, but it was as black as your honour’s hat. Well, I didn’t care much, seeing I knew the road as well as I knew the way to my mouth, whether I saw it or not, and I put the mare into a smart canter; but just as I turned down by the corner of Terence Leahy’s field—sure your honour ought to know the place well—just at the very spot the fox was killed when your honour came in first out of a whole field of a hundred and fifty gentlemen, and may be more, all of them brave riders.”
(Mr. Gumbleton smiled.)