Terry repeated the question.
“Send for a doctor!—give you money!” echoed the old man. “Where the devil would I get money to pay a doctor?”
“You have it, and ten times as much,” said Terry, “and you cannot deny it.”
“If I have as much money as would buy me a coffin,” said the Boccough, “may my soul never rest quiet in the grave.”
Terry crossed his brow with terror. He knew the unhappy wretch was dying with a lie on his tongue, but he resolved not to press the matter further.
“You are dying as fast as you can,” remarked Terry; “have you any thing to say before you go?”
“Nothing,” replied he faintly. “But let me be buried with my red nightcap on me.”
“Your wish must be granted,” said Terry, and he went to awake his old mother, who still lay asleep. When he returned, he found the old man breathing his last. He uttered a convulsive groan, and expired.
He was washed and stretched, and waked, with all the honours, rites, and ceremonies belonging to a genuine Irish wake; and on the third day following, being the Sabbath, he was followed to the grave by crowds of the village peasantry, who remained in the churchyard until they saw his remains deposited, as they thought for ever, in the rank soil of the “City of the Dead.”
Many rumours were now current respecting the Boccough’s money. Every one but Terry believed that the “lob” fell with Terry himself. But Terry, who knew better, believed and affirmed that “what was got under the devil’s belly, always goes over his back,” and that the “old boy” had taken the spoil, and that it lay concealed in some crevice in the bank of the river.