“You are a bright pair,” said the priest, somewhat nettled at their neglect of him—“you are a bright pair, and deeply learned in spurs. Can't you ride asier?”
“Never heed him,” said the father, in a whisper; “do you, give the mare the right spur, an' I'll give her the left. Push an! that's it.”
They accordingly dashed forwrard, Denis plying, one heel, and the father another, until the priest found himself gradually falling behind. In vain he plied both spurs; in vain he whipped, and wriggled on the saddle, and pressed forwrard his hack. Being a priest's horse, the animal had been accustomed for the last twelve years to a certain jog-trot-pace, beyond which it neither would nor could go. On finding all his efforts to overtake them unsuccessful, he at last shouted after them.
“Do you call that gratitude, my worthy friends? To lave me creeping over the ups and downs of this villanous road without company?”
“Lay an, aroon,” said the father. “Let us get home. Oh, how your poor mother will die with joy, an' Susy, an' Nanny, an' Brian, an' Michael, an' Dick, an' Lanty, an' all o' them. Glory be to Heaven! what a meetin' we'll have! An' the nabors, too! Push an' avick machree.”
“My curse upon you, Friar Hennessy!” exclaimed the priest, in a soliloquy, “it was you who first taught this four-footed snail to go like a thief to the gallows. I wish to Heaven you had palmed him on some one else, for many a dinner I have lost by him in my time. Is that your gratitude, gentlemen? Do I deserve this?”
“What is he sayin'?” said the father.
“He is declaiming about gratitude,” replied Denis.
“Lay-an' her,” said the father. “Poor Mave!”
“Such conduct does you credit,” shouted the priest. “It's just the way of the world. You have got what you wanted out of me, an' now you throw me off. However, go on.”