You see, Mark, (observed the captain, in explanation,) the ould master had stood for the county. Well, from the time he came into possession of the estate, of course, Sir Thomas was like his father, a Sunday man and as he couldn’t meet the sheriff openly at the election, what the divil does he do, but he sits out in a boat, where he could hear how things were goin’ on, and give orders to the tenants. The Lord sees, the cratures did all they could for a good master as he was. Didn’t they kidnap the electors, tare down the booths, burn Peter Daly’s talley-room teetotally,—and throw a jaunting car, with six voters, clane over the bridge—horse, driver, and all! And what more; could they do? The money bate us in the long-run; and it was well Sir Thomas wasn’t taken into the bargain—for the bailiffs chased him to the very gates. No wonder then, poor ould gentleman, that the very name of the election put him always into a rage.
* In olden time, Irish gentlemen found it occasionally
convenient to rest from their labours for six days, and only
exhibit their persons on the seventh.
“Never mind,” said the priest, striving to say something pleasant, and comfort the ould master; “it’s a long lane that wants a turn—and luck will come at last. There’s yer two sisters, Sir Thomas—the best catholics in Connemara, and ready to travel any moment that they’re wanted—if the Lord would only mercifully take them to himself. Indeed, they’re too good for this wicked world—and they would be far snugger in the next.”
“Divil a chance there,” says Sir Thomas; “they’re the very counterpart of their mother—the Lord be good to her! an she lived to ninety-seven.”
“Are ye in the lottery the year?” asked the priest. “Arrah, what matter whether I am or not!” said Sir Thomas. “Hav’n’t I been in it since I was a boy, and niver won any thing beyond a blackguard twenty or two? Upon my conscience, I verily believe, if I had been bound to a hatter, people would be born without heads!”
Well, the divil a one could point out the likelihood of luck; and the poor ould gentleman seemed mighty disconsolate.
“Arrah,” says I, “hould up, Sir Thomas—who knows but we’ll get to the sunny side of the hedge yet? There’s Master Dick—and if he would only marry an heiress—”
“Be dad,” says the ould gentleman, “Father Pat, there’s sense in that.” The priest shook his head.
“And why shouldn’t he?” says Sir Thomas.
“Because,” returned the priest, “he’s never out of one scrape till he’s into another. And then he’s so captious; if he was in heaven—where the Lord send him in proper time, if possible!—why, he would pick a quarrel with St. Peter.”