“Why, who but my ould master’s son, Dick Macnamara.”
“And the expedition was unfortunate?”
“Unfortunate! how could it be otherwise?” replied the captain. “Of all the unlucky devils ever born under a cross-grained star, Dick Macnamara, you were the most unlucky!”
“Is he dead?” said the fosterer.
“Dead! to be sure he is,” replied the captain. “He quarrelled with Savey Blake, at the winter fair of Athlone; and, as the morning was wet, they fought in the inn yard. What did the stupid fool his second do, but stick Dick into a corner! The rain was in his face; and at the first fire, Savey Blake, shot him like a woodcock. I was with him till he died. Indeed, I never knew him have luck but once.”
“Indeed; and what was that?”
“When he did marry, his wife ran away from him within a quarter.”
“But your English expedition, Shemus. Arrah, man, there’s where the shoe pinches; and I would like to know how ye got on.”
“Got on!” exclaimed the ratcatcher. “Be gogstay! from the very moment we left home, every thing went wrong with us. But, stop—isn’t there a well that none but a sinful man would pass? Sit down, avourneeine—there’s a drop in the cruiskeein still, and when I take a cobweb out of my throat, I’ll tell ye all the particulars of,