“Be quiet, Phil—who is he, Darby?”
“Why, sir, a fellow—of the name of Weasand—may Satan open a gusset in his own for him this day! Sure, one Counsellor Browbeater, at the Castle, sir—they say he's the Lord o' the Black Trot—Lord save us— whatever that is—”
“The Back Trot, Darby—go on.”
“Well, sir, the Back Trot; but does that mean that he trots backwards, sir?”
“Never mind, Darby, he'll trot anyway that will serve his own purposes—go on, I tell you.”
“Well, sir, sure some one has wrote to this Counsellor Browbeater about him, and what do you think, but Counsellor Browbeater has wrote to Mr. Lucre, and Mr. Lucre spoke to me, so that it's all the same as if the Castle had wrote to myself—-and axed me if I knewn anything about him.”
“Well, what did you say?”
“Why, I said I did not, and neither did I then; but may I never die in sin, but I think I have a clue to him now.”
“Well, and how is that?”
“Why, sir, as I was ordhering the tenantry in wid the cars and carts to remove M'Loughlin's furniture, I seen this Weasand along wid Father Roche, and there they were—the two o' them—goin' from house to house; whatever they said to the people I'm sure I don't know, but, anyhow, hell resave—hem.”