“Ay; what was he?—that's what I'm askin' you.”
“Proceed,” said Norton; “tell it your own way.”
“He said he came from the Aist Indies beyant; that he knew some members of his lordship's family there; that he had been in Paris, and that while he was there he larned to take French lave of his masther.”
“But who was his master?”
“That he would not tell me. However, he said he had been in Ireland for some time before, where he saw an aunt of his, that was half mad; and then he went on to tell me that he had been once at sarvice wid my masther, and that if he liked he could tell him a secret; but then, he said, it wouldn't be worth his while, for that he would soon know it.”
“Very clear, perfectly transparent, nothing can be plainer. What a Tipperary sphinx you are; an enigma, half man, half beast, although there is little enigma in that, it is plain enough. In the meantime, you bog-trotting oracle, say whether you are humbugging me or not.”
“Devil a bit I'm humbuggin' you; but proud as you sit there, you have trotted more bogs and horses than ever I did.”
“Well, never mind that, Morty. What did this end in?”
“End in!—why upon my conscience I don't think it's properly begun yet.”
“Good-by,” exclaimed Norton, rising to go, or at least pretending to do so. “Many thanks in the meantime for your information—it is precious, invaluable.”