“Do you know Mr. Lynch, the magistrate?” I asked. “If you do, look out for him, as he has promised to join me and show me the place.”
“Oh no, sorr!” the jarvey exclaimed at once; “don’t mind about him. Hell have his own car, and your honour won’t want to take him on ours.”
“Why not?” I persisted, “there’s plenty of room.”
“Oh! but indeed, sir, if it wasn’t that you were going to the priest’s, Father Maher, you wouldn’t get a car at Athy—no, not under ten pounds!”
“Not under ten pounds,” I replied. “Would I get one then for ten pounds?”
“It’s a deal of money, ten pounds, sorr, and you wouldn’t have a poor man throw away ten pounds?”
“Certainly not, nor ten shillings either. Is it a question of principle, or a question of price?”
The man looked around at me with a droll glimmer in his eye: “Ah, to be sure, your honour’s a great lawyer; but he’ll come pounding along with his big horse in his own car, Mr. Lynch; and sure it’ll be quicker for your honour just driving to Father Maher’s.”
There was no resisting this, so I laughed and bade him drive on.
“Whose house is that?” I asked, as we passed a house surrounded with trees.