"May I niver ate another bit if it isn't Masther Gerald Ffrench!"
he said. "Well, well, well, but it's good for sore eyes to see ye.
Come out here, Steve, an' take the team. Jump down, Masther
Gerald, an' stretch yer legs a bit. It's kilt ye are entirely."
A swarthy little Mexican appeared, and led the tired horses into the stable. Then the young journalist took a good look at the man who seemed to know him so well, and endeavored, as the phrase goes, to "place him."
"Ye don't mind me, yer honor, an' how wud ye? But I mind yersilf well. Sure it's often I've druv ye and Mr. Edward too. I used to wurruk for Mr. Ross of Mullinger. I was Denny the postboy—Denis Driscoll, yer honor; sure ye must know me?"
"Oh yes, to be sure—I remember," said Gerald, as recollection slowly dawned upon him. "But who'd have thought of finding you in a place like this? I didn't even know you'd left Ross's stables."
"Six or siven months ago, yer honor."
"And have you been here ever since? I hope you are doing well," said Gerald.
"Iver since, sor, an' doin' finely, wid the blessin' o' God. I own that place," pointing to the stable, "an' four as good turnouts as ye'd ax to sit behind."
"I'm glad of it," said Gerald heartily. "I like to hear of the boys from the old neighborhood doing well."
"Won't ye step inside, sor, an' thry a drop of something? Ye must be choked intirely wid the dust."
"I don't care if I do," answered Gerald. "I feel pretty much as if
I'd swallowed a limekiln."