"Tim," said the younger guest to the landlord, as he nodded significantly at the goose, "I'm hungry as a hawk."
The host shrugged his shoulders, and, pointing to the "great chamber," where I was seated, replied in an undertone, "There's a customer before ye, Master Johnny."
"Sorrow more," replied the host.
"Why, the curse of Cromwell on ye for a cormorant!" said the traveller. "Three priests, after confessing half a parish, would scarcely demolish that wabbler. I'll invite myself to dinner; and if I be not in at the dissection, it won't be Johnny Dixon's fault."
"Arrah! the devil a fear of that," returned the landlord. "Your modesty nivir stopped your promotion, Shawn avourneen![53] " and he of the Cock and Punchbowl laughed heartily as the traveller entered the parlour.
He was a stout, middle-sized, foxy-headed fellow of some six or eight-and-twenty. His face was slightly marked with small-pox, and plain, but not unpleasing. The expression was good-humoured and intelligent; while, in the sparkle of his light blue eye, there was a pretty equal proportion of mirth and mischief. He advanced to me with perfect nonchalance; nodded as if he had known me for a twelvemonth; and, as if conferring a compliment, notified with great brevity that it was his intention to honour me with his company. No proposition could have pleased me better, and it was fortunate that I had no wish to remain alone; for, I verily believe, the traveller had already made up his mind, coute qui coute, to aid and assist in demolishing the bird that saved the Capitol.
Presently the hostess announced that all preparations were complete. The traveller, who had been talking of divers affairs, rural and political, suddenly changed the conversation. "There was," he said, "an unlucky sinner outside, who like himself had been storm-stayed that evening. He was a priest's nephew, a harmless poor devil, whom the old fellow had worked like a nigger, until one sweet evening he smothered himself in poteen-punch, leaving Peter Feaghan a kettleful of gold. If he, Peter, were only let in, he would pray for me during life; and, as to eating, would be contented with the drumsticks."
I laughed, and assented; and "Master Johnny" speedily produced a soft-looking, bullet-headed farmer; who, after scraping his leg across the floor, sate himself down at the corner of the table.
Dinner came. I, since I breathed the keen air of Connemara, had felt a quickened appetite; but "Master Johnny" double-distanced me easily as a trencher-man, and he, in turn, could not hold a candle to the nephew of the defunct priest. Peter Feaghan was a silent and a steady workman, and I firmly believe the drumsticks were regularly skeletonized before the priest's heir was disposed to cry "Hold, enough!" At last the cloth was removed; and a quart-bottle, a basin of sugar, with a jug of boiling water of enormous capacity, were set down.