“A single day, sir, he'll never pass in my stable,” said Denis; “he has been an unlucky baste to me an' mine, an' to all that had anything to do wid him.”
“Pray what age is he?”
“Risin' four, sir; 'deed I believe he's four all out, an' a purty devil's clip he is, as you'd wish to see.”
“Come,” said the Counsellor, rising, “let us have a look at him. Mr. Finnerty, you're an excellent judge; will you favor me with your opinion?”
The priest and he, accompanied by the two O'Shaughnessys, passed out to the stable yard, where their horses stood. As they went, Father Finnerty whispered to O'Shaughnessy:—
“Now, Denis, is your time. Strike while the iron is hot. Don't take a penny!—don't take a fraction! Get into a passion, and swear you'll shoot him unless he accepts him as a present. If he does, all's right; he can twine the Bishop round his finger.”
“I see, sir,” said Denis; “I see! Let me alone for managin' him.”
The barrister was already engaged in examining the horse's mouth, as is usual, when the priest accosted him with—
“You are transgressing etiquette in this instance, Counsellor. You know the proverb—never look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“How, Mr. Finnerty?—a gift horse!”