"'It's the worst road in Connaught,' said I: 'my den is scarcely a mile off; and, if you are not in a hurry, turn in for the night, and you shall have a warm stall, a grilled bone, and a hearty welcome.'
"'Never say it again,' says Mr. Magan; and on we rode, cheek by jowl, talking of fairs, horses, and the coming election. Lord! nothing came amiss to him: he was up to every thing, from écarté to robbing the mail-coach; and in politics so knowing, that one while I fancied him a Whig, and at the next I would have given my book oath he was a black Orangeman.
"Before we reached the avenue, I tried if he would 'stand a knock.'[61]
"'Would you part with the mare?' says I.
"'If I was bid a sporting price, I would part with my grandmother, if I had one,' was the reply.
"'What boot will you take, and turn tails?' said I.
"'Neighbour,' replied Mr. Magan, 'it must be a long figure that gets Black Bess. What's that you're riding?'
"'A thorough-bred four-year old, by Langar, out of a Tom Pipes mare.'
"'Bedershin!' says Mr. Magan; 'Tom died before you were born.'
"This was a hard hit. Devil a one of me knew how the horse was bred; but, as he happened to be a chestnut, I thought I would give Langar for a sire. Pretending not to hear the remark, I continued,