"The beef! What beef?"
"Why, dear me, you surely havn't forgotten that a six-rib piece of roast beef was to be supplied by you?"
"I—declare—I—never—once—thought—of it. Well, now, that's very odd."
Mr Sharpe's countenance fell. The discovery had been made too timely to please him.
"What's best to be done now? I can purchase beef somewhere as we go along, and we'll get it dressed at Howth, in some cabin or another."
"Phwee—oo," whistled Mr Robert O'Gorman, "what the deuce would we do with ourselves for five or six hours, at the least, that such a piece would take to roast, without any thing to keep its back warm in an open cabin? I'll tell you what, ma'am: give me the money, and I'll get as much cold roast beef as you like, from Mulholland."
"Who is Mulholland?"
"Oh, 'tis no matter; I'll get the meat, if you want it."
"Very well, Mr O'Gorman, do so, and you'll oblige me; here is a guinea. But why not tell who Mulholland is?"
Mr O'Gorman bolted, without making any reply.