Paddy Corbett’s eloquence operating on the exciseman’s dread of contagion, saved the tobacco.
Our adventurers considering it rather dangerous to seek a buyer in Killarney, directed their course eastward to Kanturk. The hour of evening was rather advanced as they entered the town; and Shane, who could spell his way without much difficulty through the letters of a sign-board, seeing “entertainment for man and horse” over the door, said they would put up there for the night, and then directed Paddy to the shop of the only tobacconist in town, whither for some private motive he declined to attend him. Mr Pigtail was after dispatching a batch of customers when Paddy entered, who, seeing the coast clear, gave him the “God save all here,” which is the usual phrase of greeting in the kingdom of Kerry. Mr Pigtail was startled at the rude salutation, which, though a beautiful benediction, and characteristic of a highly religious people, is yet too uncouth for modern “ears polite,” and has, excepting among the lowest class of peasants, entirely given way to that very sincere and expressive phrase of address, “your servant.”
Now, Mr Pigtail, who meted out the length of his replies in exact proportion to the several ranks and degrees of his querists, upon hearing the vulgar voice that uttered the more vulgar salute, hesitated to deign the slightest notice, but, measuring with a glance the outward man of the saluter, he gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, and the dissyllabic response “servant;” but seeing Paddy Corbett with gaping mouth about to open his embassy, and that, like Burns’s Death,
“He seemed to make a kind o’ stan’,
But naething spak,”
he immediately added, “Honest man, you came from the west, I believe?”
“Thrue enough for yer honour,” said Pat; “my next door neighbours at that side are the wild Ingins of Immeriky. A wet and could foot an’ a dhry heart I had coming to ye; but welkim be the grace o’ God, sure poor people should make out an honest bit an’ sup for the weeny crathurs at home; an’ I have thirteen o’ thim, all thackeens, praise be to the Maker.”
“And I dare say you have brought a trifle in my line of business in your road?”
“Faith, ’tis yerself may book it: I have the natest lafe o’ tibaccy that ever left Connor Cro-ab-a-bo. I was going to skin an the honest man—Lord betune us an’harum, I’d be the first informer of my name, any how. But, talking o’ the tibaccy, the man that giv it said a sweether taste never left the hould of his ship, an’ that’s a great word. I’ll give it dog chape, by raison o’ the long road it thravelled to yer honour.”
“You don’t seem to be long in this business,” said Mr Pigtail.