"No it wasn't, though you made a good offer at it sure enough, for if it wasn't Phil, it was his sisther—"
"'Tare alive, is it Biddy, it was?"
"'Scure to the one else.—Oh she's the quarest craythur in life.—There's not a thrick out, that one's not up to, and more besides. By the powdhers o' war, she'd bate a field full o' lawyers at schkamin'—she's the Divil's Biddy."
"Why thin but it was a grate iday intirely."
"You may say that in throth—maybe it's we won't have the fun—but see who's before us there. Isn't it that owld Coogan?"
"Sure enough by dad."
"Why thin isn't he the rale fine ould cock to come so far to see the rights o' the thing?"
"Faix he was always the right sort—sure in Nointy-eight, as I hear, he was malthrated a power, and his place rummaged, and himself a'most kilt, bekase he wouldn't inform an his neighbours."
"God's blessin' be an him and the likes av him that wouldn't prove thraitor to a friend in disthress."
Here they came up with the old man to whom they alluded—he was the remains of a stately figure, and his white hair hung at some length round the back of his head and his temples, while a black and well marked eyebrow overshadowed his keen grey eye—the contrast of the dark eyebrow to the white hair rendered the intelligent cast of his features more striking, and he was, altogether, a figure that one would not be likely to pass without notice. He was riding a small horse at an easy pace, and he answered the rather respectful salutation of the two foot passengers with kindness and freedom. They addressed him as "Mr. Coogan," while to them he returned the familiar term "boys."