“I did not. Where would be the good? If he could speak Irish he’d be sure to be able to speak English.”
“Would you have any objection to my saying a few words to him, doctor?”
“Not the least in the world. If you’ve nothing particular to do, go up there and tell the master I sent you.”
An hour later Michael Geraghty re-appeared at the doctor’s door. He was grinning broadly and seemed pleased with himself.
“Well, Michael, did you make him speak?”
“I didn’t like to say a word to you, doctor, till I made sure for fear of what I might be bringing some kind of trouble on the wrong man; but as soon as ever I seen that fellow put into my cart beyond at Carrigwee, I said to myself: ‘You’re mighty like poor Affy Hynes that’s gone, only a bit older. I took another look at him as we were coming along the road, and, says I, ‘If Affy Hynes is alive this minute you’re him. You’ll recollect, doctor, that the poor fellow couldn’t speak at the time, by reason of the cold that was on him and the broken leg and all the hardships he’d been through. Well, looking at him off and on, till I got to the workhouse I came to be pretty near certain that it was either Affy Hynes or a twin brother of his; and Mrs. Hynes, the mother, that’s dead this ten years, never had but the one son.”
“And who was Affy Hynes?”
“It was before your time, of course, and before Father Henaghan was parish priest; but the colonel would know who I mean.” Michael sank his voice to an impressive whisper. “Affy Hynes was the boy that the police was out after in the bad times, wanting to have him hanged on account of the way that the bailiff was shot. But he made off, and none of us ever knew where he went to, though they did say that it might be to an uncle of his that was in America.”
“Did he murder the bailiff?”
“He did not; nor I don’t believe he knew who did, though he might.”