Peter Crean was a man of action. A small room was cleared of visitors, a table prepared with viands and various liquors. This done, Peter hurried out to receive the guest. His suspicions were thoroughly confirmed on his inspection of the man.
“Your name, sir,” he said, “that I may make you welcome to Ballyswiggan Castle. My master is just now particularly engaged with a few guests, but he will be happy to see you when the wine is on the table; and, in the meantime, you will just come in and satisfy your appetite. You have had a long ride since you took anything to eat, barring maybe the whisky, which is not quite so rare on the road.”
“My name is Jonas Quelch, at your service,” answered the stranger, “and I come from England, though I have been living for some time in Dublin. It’s a fine city, that Dublin.”
“Faith it is, Mr Quelch,” observed Crean; “and fine people in it, and rogues in it, and the rogues sometimes come out of it, and when they do they are pretty glad to get back again, for we don’t like rogues in these parts, Mr Quelch. But I will not keep you sitting on your horse; that will be taken to the stable, and you will just come in, as I said, and partake of the scanty fare this poor part of the country can afford.”
He spoke in a satirical tone. Mr Quelch, holding his riding-whip in his hand, as if for defence, followed him into the house. Peter. Crean was, however, all courtesy and attention. He entreated his visitor to make himself at home, and helped him abundantly to the good things in the dishes placed before him, nor did he omit to ply him with whisky. Glass upon glass he induced him to pour down his throat, till I began to wonder how he could swallow so much without inconvenience. He was evidently a hardened vessel. Crean, however, had not yet done with him. He now placed before him a flagon of claret.
“Faith, this is the stuff for a gentleman,” he observed. “You may just empty the bottle, and feel none the worse, but rather much the better than when you began.”
The stranger, nothing loath, followed the advice of the steward. By degrees, however, Mr Quelch’s speech became thick, and his conversation more and more incoherent. Crean watched him with a wicked look in his eyes, continuing to press the liquor more and more warmly upon him.
“Come, now, Mr Quelch, just let’s begin another bottle. I have always found, where one bottle confuses a man’s head, a second one puts him all to rights again. Now, I should not be surprised but that you are beginning to feel a little fuddled.”
“You are right, friend,” answered Mr Quelch, though the words were jerked out in a manner indicative of his state.
“Just so; and, now, follow my advice. Take the other bottle to cure you. We never like a stranger to come to this part of old Ireland without showing him due hospitality.”