“I wondher,” said Andy Morrow, “what makes Joe M'Crea throw down that fine ould castle of his, in Aughentain?”
“I'm tould,” said M'Roarkin, “that he expects money; for they say there's a lot of it buried somewhere about the same building.”
“Jist as much as there's in my wig,” replied Shane Fadh, “and there's ne'er a pocket to it yet. Why, bless your sowl, how could there be money in it, whin the last man of the Grameses that owned it—I mane of the ould stock, afore it went into Lord Mountjoy's hands—sould it out, ran through the money, and died begging afther'? Did none of you ever hear of—
'—— —— —— —— Ould John Grame,
That swally'd the castle of Aughentain?'”
“That was long afore my time,” said the poacher; “but I know that the rabbit-burrow between that and Jack Appleden's garden will soon be run out.”
“Your time!” responded Shane Fadh, with contempt; “ay, and your father's afore you: my father doesn't remimber more nor seeing his funeral, and a merry one it was; for my grandfather, and some of them that had a respect for the family and his forbarers, if they hadn't it for himself, made up as much money among them as berried him dacently any how,—ay, and gave him a rousin' wake into the bargain, with lashins of whiskey, stout beer, and ale; for in them times—God be with them every farmer brewed his own ale and beer;—more betoken, that one pint of it was worth a keg of this wash of yours, Ned.”
“Wasn't it he that used to appear?” inquired M'Roarkin.
“Sure enough he did, Tom.”
“Lord save us,” said Nancy, “what could trouble him, I dunna?”
“Why,” continued Shane Fadh, “some said one thing, and some another; but the upshot of it was this: when the last of the Grameses sould the estate, castle, and all, it seems he didn't resave all the purchase money; so, afther he had spint what he got, he applied to the purchaser for the remainder—him that the Mountjoy family bought it from; but it seems he didn't draw up writings, or sell it according to law, so that the thief o' the world baffled him from day to day, and wouldn't give him a penny—bekase he knew, the blaggard, that the Square was then as poor as a church mouse, and hadn't money enough to thry it at law with him; but the Square was always a simple asy-going man. One day he went to this fellow, riding on an ould garran, with a shoe loose—the only baste he had in the world—and axed him, for God's sake, to give him of what he owed him, if it was ever so little; 'for,' says he, 'I huve not as much money betune me and death as will get a set of shoes for my horse.'”