No sooner proposed than acceded to—off we set, for the eulogised “Bannaker banging Mikey Brian.”
A stout, handsome boy he was—rising four-and-twenty—a fighting, kissing, rollicking, ball-playing, dancing vagabone, as you’d see in a day’s march—such a fellow as you only meet in Ireland—a bit of a gardener, a bit of a groom, a bit of a futboy, and a bit of a horse-docthor.
We reached the stables by the back way, and there, in his own peculiar loft, was Mikey Brian, brushing a somewhat faded livery, in which to wait upon the coming quality.
Bob stated the case, as far as the want of our locks’ curtailment went, but made no mention of the delay which occasioned our coming to Mikey; on the contrary, he attributed the preference solely to our conviction of his superior abilities, and the wish to give him a chance, as he felt convinced, if he had fair play, he’d be engaged miles round, instead of the hopping old shaver at Kells.
“I’m your man, Masther Robert.”
“Who’s first?”
“I am—there’s the fi’penny—that’s for the lot!”
“Good luck to you, sit down—will you have the Currah thoro’bred-cut?”
“That’s the thing,” said Bob.
“Then, young gentlement, as there ain’t much room—and if you do be all looking on, I’ll be bothered—just come in one by one.”