“What a fine man he is!” one would whisper, loud enough, however, to be heard by the object of his panegyric.
“He is, indeed, and a rale gintleman,” another would respond in the same key.
“Hut! he's none of your proud, stingy upsthart bodagahs*—none of your beggarly half-sirs*,” a third would remark: “he's the dacent thing entirely—you see he hasn't his heart in a thrifle.”
* A person vulgar, but rich, without any pretensions but
those of wealth to the character of a gentleman; a churl.
Half-sir; the same as above.
“And so sign's on him,” a fourth would add, with comic gravity, “he wasn't bred to shabbiness, as you may know by his fine behavior and his big whiskers.”
When the punch was made, and the kitchen-table placed endwise towards the fire, the stranger, finding himself very comfortable, inquired if he could be accommodated with a bed and supper, to which Nancy replied in the affirmative.
“Then, in that case,” said he, “I will be your guest for the night.”
Shane Fadh now took courage to repeat the story of old Squire Graham and his horse with the loose shoe; informing the stranger, at the same time, of the singular likeness which he bore to the subject of the story, both in face and size, and dwelling upon the remarkable coincidence in the time and manner of his approach.
“Tut, man!” said the stranger, “a far more extraordinary adventure happened to one of my father's tenants, which, if none of you have any objection, I will relate.”
There was a buzz of approbation at this; and they all thanked his honor, expressing the strongest desire to hear his story. He was just proceeding to gratify them, when another rap came to the door, and, before any of the inmates had time to open it, Father Ned Deleery and his curate made their appearance, having been on their way home from a conference held in the town of ——, eighteen miles from the scene of our present story.