“Did you warn the townland of Ballymackscud?”
“Yis, plaise your honor.”
“Are they ready—have they the rent?”
“Only some o' them, sir,—an other some is axin' for time, the thieves.”
“Who are asking for time?”
“Why the O'Shaughrans, sir—hopin', indeed, that your honor will let them wait till the markets rises, an not be forced to sell the grain whin the prices is so low now that it would ridin them—but it's wondherful the onraisonableness of some people. Says I, 'his honor, Mr. M'Clutchy, is only doin' his duty; but a betther hearted or a kinder man never bruk the world's bread than he is to them that desarves it at his hands;' so, sir, they began to—but—well, well, it's no matther—I tould them they were wrong—made it plain to them—but they wouldn't be convinced, say what I might.”
“Why, what did they say, were they abusing me—I suppose so?”
“Och! the poor sowls, sure it was only ignorance and foolishness on their part—onraisonable cratures all or most of them is.”
“Let me know at once what they said, you knave, or upon my honor and soul I'll turn you out of the room and bring in Hanlon.”
“Plaise your honor, he wasn't present—I left him outside, in regard that I didn't think he was fit to be trust—a safe with—no matther, 'twas for a raison I had.” He gave a look at M'Clutchy as he spoke, compounded of such far and distant cunning, scarcely perceptible—and such obvious, yet retreating cowardice, scarcely perceptible also—-that no language could convey any notion of it.