“Thrue for ye there agin, a-yinusal; ’tis yourself may say so. Since the priest christened Paddy an me, an’ that’s longer than I can remimber, I never wint an the sachrawn afore. God comfort poor Jillian Dawly, the crathur, an’ the grawls I left her. Amin, a-hierna!”
Now, Mr Pigtail supposed from the man’s seeming simplicity, and his inexperience in running smuggled goods, that he should drive a very profitable adventure with him. He ordered him to bring the goods privately to the back way that led to his premises; and Paddy, who had the fear of the guager vividly before him, lost no time in obeying the mandate. But when Mr Pigtail examined the several packages, he turns round upon poor Paddy with a look of disapprobation, and exclaims, “This article will not suit, good man—entirely damaged by sea water—never do.”
“See wather, anagh!” returns Paddy Corbett; “bad luck to the dhrop o’ wather, salt or fresh, did my taste o’ tibaccy ever see. The Colleen Ayrigh that brought it could dip an’ skim along the waves like a sea-gull. There are two things she never yet let in, Mr Pigtail, avourneen—wather nor wather-guards: the one ships off her, all as one as a duck; and the Boochal Fadda on her deck keeps t’other a good mile off, more spunk to him.” This piece of nautical information Paddy had ventured from gleanings collected from the rich stores which the conversation of Shane Glas presented along the road, and in the smugglers’ cave.
“But, my good man, you cannot instruct me in the way of my business. Take it away—no man in the trade would venture an article like it. But I shall make a sacrifice, rather than let a poor ignorant man fall into the hands of the guager. I shall give you five pounds for the lot.”
Paddy Corbett, who had been buoyed up by the hope of making two hundred per cent. of his lading, now seeing all his gainful views vanish into thin air, was loud and impassioned in the expression of his disappointment. “O, Jillian Dawly!” he cried, swinging his body to and fro, “Jillian, a roon manima, what’ll ye say to yer man, afther throwing out of his hand the half year’s rint that he had to give the agint? O! what’ll ye say, aveen, but that I med a purty padder-napeka of myself, listening to Shane Glas, the yellow schamer; or what’ll Sheelabeg, the crathur, say, whin Tim Murphy won’t take her without the cows that I won’t have to give her? O, Misther Pigtail, avourneen, be marciful to an honest father’s son; don’t take me short, avourneen, an’ that God might take you short. Give me the tin pounds it cost me, an’ I’ll pray for yer sowl, both now an’ in the world to come. O! Jillian, Jillian, I’ll never face ye, nor Sheelabeg, nor any o’ the crathurs agin, without the tin pound, any how. I’ll take the vestmint, an’ all the books in Father Darby’s house of it.”
“Well, if you don’t give the tobacco to me for less than that, you can call on one Mr Prywell, at the other side of the bridge; he deals in such articles too. You see I cannot do more for you, but you may go farther and fare worse,” said the perfidious tobacconist, as he directed the unfortunate man to the residence of Mr Paul Prywell, the officer of excise.
With heavy heart, and anxious eye peering in every direction beneath his broad-leafed hat, Paddy Corbett proceeded till he reached a private residence having a green door and a brass knocker. He hesitated, seeing no shop nor appearance of business there; but on being assured that this was indeed the house of Mr Prywell, he approached, and gave the door three thundering knocks with the butt end of his holly-handled whip. The owner of the domicile, roused by this very unceremonious mode of announcement, came forth to demand the intruder’s business, and to wonder that he would not prefer giving a single rap with the brass knocker, as was the wont of persons in his grade of society, instead of sledging away at the door like a “peep-o’-day boy.”
“Yer honour will excuse my bouldness,” said Paddy, taking off his hat, and scraping the mud before and behind him a full yard; “excuse my bouldness, for I never seed such curifixes on a dure afore, an’ I wouldn’t throuble yer honour’s house at all at all, only in regard of a taste of goods that I was tould would shoot yer honour. Ye can have it, a yinusal, for less than nothing, case I don’t find myself in heart to push on farther; for the baste is slow, the crathur, an’ myself that’s saying it, making buttons for fear o’ the guager.”
“Who, might I ask,” said the astonished officer of excise, “directed you here to sell smuggled tobacco?”
“A very honest gintleman, but a bad buyer, over the bridge, sir. He’d give but five pound for what cost myself tin—foreer dhota, that I had ever had a hand in it! I put the half year’s rint in it, yer honour; and my thirteen femul grawls an’ their mother, God help ’em, will be soon on the sachrawn. I’ll never go home without the tin pound, any how. High hanging to ye, Shane Glas, ye tallow-faced thief, that sint me smuggling. O! Jillian, ’tis sogering I’ll soon be, with a gun an my shoulder.”