“Do you remimber the day,” said others, “you met Mr. M., an' you goin' up the street wid a cake of it in your fists, undher your shabby skirts; an' whin the gintlemen wint to shake hands wid you, how he discovered your maneness? Three groans for Yallow Sam, the extortioner! a short coorse to him! Your corner's warm for you, you villain!”
“But now, boys, for the Colonel!” they exclaimed.—“Huzza for noble Colonel B——— the rale Irish gintlemen, that wouldn't see his tenants put upon by a villain!—Huzza! Hell resave yees, shout! Huzza! Huzza! Huzza! Huz—tundher-an'-ounze, my voice is cracked! Where's his coach?—where's his honor's coach? Come, boys, out wid it,—out wid it! Tattheration to yees, come! We'll dhraw it to the divil, to hell an' back agin, if it plases him! Success to Colonel B———! Blood-an-turf! what'll we do for a fight? Long life to noble Colonel B———, the poor man's friend!—long life to him for ever an' a day longer! Whoo! my darlins! Huzza!” etc.
The warm interest which the Colonel took in M'Evoy's behalf, was looked upon by the other tenants as a guarantee of his sincerity in all he promised. Their enthusiasm knew no bounds. They got out his carriage from the Inn-Yard, and drew it through the town, though the Colonel himself, beyond the fact of their shouting, remained quite ignorant of what was going forward.
After Carson's departure, the Colonel's friends, having been first asked to dine with him at the inn, also took their leave, and none remained but M'Evoy, who waited with pleasing anxiety to hear what the Colonel proposed to say—for he felt certain that it would be agreeable.
“M'Evoy,” said the Colonel, “I am truly sorry for what you have suffered through the villany of my agent; but I will give you redress, and allow you for what you have lost by the transaction. It is true, as I have been lately told by a person who pleaded your cause nobly and eloquently, that I can never repay you for what you have suffered. However, what we can, we will do. You are poor, I understand?”
“God he sees that, sir; and afflicted, too, plase your honor.”
“Afflicted? How is that?”
“I had a son, sir—a blessed boy! a darlin' boy!—once our comfort, an' once we thought he'd be our pride an' our staff, but”—
The poor man's tears here flowed fast; he took up the skirt of his “Cotha More,” or great-coat, and, after wiping his eyes, and clearing his voice, proceeded:—
“He was always, as I said, a blessed boy, and we looked up to him alwayrs, sir. He saw our poverty, your honor, an' he felt it, sir, keen enough, indeed, God help him! How an'-iver, he took it on him to go up to Munster, sir, undher hopes of risin' us—undher the hopes, poor child—an' God knows, sir,—if—oh, Jemmy avourneen ma-chree!—doubt—I doubt you sunk undher what proved too many for you!—I doubt my child's dead, sir—him that all our hearts wor fixed upon; and if that 'ud happen to be the case, nothin'—not even your kindness in doin' us justice, could make us happy. We would rather beg wid him, sir, nor have the best in the world widout him. His poor young heart, sir, was fixed upon the place your honor is restorin' us to; an I'm afeard his mother, sir, would break her heart if she thought he couldn't share our good fortune! And we don't know whether he's livin' or dead! That, sir, is what's afflictin' us. I had some notion of goin' to look for him; but he tould us he would never write, or let us hear from him, till he'd be either one thing or other.”