THE SQUIRES.
O'Connor had scarcely been joined by the priest, when Larry Toole, who
jogged quietly on, pipe in mouth, behind his master, was accosted by
his reverence's servant, a stout, clean-limbed fellow, arrayed in blue
frieze, who rode a large, ill-made horse, and bumped listlessly along
at that easy swinging jog at which our southern farmers are wont to
ride. The fellow had a shrewd eye, and a pleasant countenance withal to
look upon, and might be in years some five or six and thirty.
"God save you, neighbour," said he.
"God save you kindly," rejoined Mr. Toole graciously.
"A plisint evenin' for a quiet bit iv a smoke," rejoined the stranger.
"None better," rejoined Larry, scanning the stranger's proportions, to
see whether, in his own phrase, "he liked his cut." The scrutiny
evidently resulted favourably, for Larry removed his pipe, and handing
it to his new acquaintance, observed courteously, "Maybe you'd take a
draw, neighbour."
"I thank you kindly," said the stranger, as he transferred the utensil
from Larry's mouth to his own. "It's turning cowld, I think. I wish to
the Lord we had a dhrop iv something to warm us," observed he, speaking
out of the unoccupied corner of his mouth.
"We'll be in Chapelizod, plase God," said Larry Toole, "in half an
hour, an' if ould Tim Delany isn't gone undher the daisies, maybe we
won't have a taste iv his best."
"Are _you_ follyin' that gintleman?" inquired the stranger, with his
pipe indicating O'Connor, "that gintleman that the masther is talking
to?"
"I am _so_," rejoined Larry promptly, "an' a good gintleman he is; an'
that's your masther there. What sort is he?"
"Oh, good enough, as masthers goes--no way surprisin' one way or th'
other."
"Where are you goin' to?" pursued Larry.
"I never axed, bedad," rejoined the man, "only to folly on, wherever he
goes--an' divil a hair I care where that is. What way are you two
goin'?"
"To Dublin, to be sure," rejoined Larry. "I wisht we wor there now.
What the divil makes him ride so unaiqual--sometimes cantherin', and
other times mostly walkin'--it's mighty nansinsical, so it is."
"By gorra, I don't know, anless fancy alone," rejoined the stranger.
"Here's your pipe," continued he, after some pause, "an' I thank you
kindly, misther--misther--how's this they call you?"
"Misther Larry Toole is the name I was christened by," rejoined the
gentleman so interrogated.
"An' a rale illegant name it is," replied the stranger. "The Tooles is
a royal family, an' may the Lord restore them to their rights."
"Amen, bedad," rejoined Larry devoutly.
"My name's Ned Mollowney," continued he, anticipating Larry's
interrogatory, "from the town of Ballydun, the plisintest spot in the
beautiful county iv Tipperary. There isn't it's aquil out for fine men
and purty girls." Larry sighed.
The conversation then took that romantic turn which best suited the
melancholy chivalry of Larry's mind, after which the current of their
mutual discoursing, by the attraction of irresistible association, led
them, as they approached the little village, once more into suggestive
commentaries upon the bitter cold, and sundry pleasant speculations
respecting the creature comforts which awaited them under Tim Delany's
genial roof-tree.
"The holy saints be praised," said Ned Mollowney, "we're in the village
at last. The tellin' iv stories is the dhryest work that ever a boy
tuck in hand. My mouth is like a cindher all as one."
"Tim Delany's is the second house beyant that wind in the street," said
Larry, pointing down the road as they advanced. "We'll jist get down
for a minute or two, an' have somethin' warrum by the fire; we'll
overtake the gintlemen asy enough."
"I'm agreeable, Mr. Toole," said the accommodating Ned Mollowney. "Let
the gintlemen take care iv themselves. They're come to an age when they
ought to know what they're about."
"This is it," said Larry, checking his horse before a low thatched
house, from whose doorway the cheerful light was gleaming upon the
bushes opposite.
The two worthies dismounted, and entered the humble place of
entertainment. Tim Delany's company was singularly fascinating, and his
liquor was, if possible, more so--besides, the evening was chill, and
his hearth blazed with a fire, the very sight of which made the blood
circulate freely, and the finger-tops grow warm. Larry Toole was
prepossessed in favour of Ned Mollowney, and Ned Mollowney had fallen
in love with Larry Toole, so that it is hardly to be wondered at that
the two gentlemen yielded to the combined seduction of their situation,
and seated themselves snugly by the fire, each with his due allowance
of stimulating liquor, and with a very vague and uncertain kind of
belief in the likelihood of their following their masters respectively
until they had made themselves particularly comfortable. It was not
until after nearly two hours of blissful communion with his delectable
companion, that Larry Toole suddenly bethought him of the fact that he
had allowed his master, at the lowest calculation, time enough to have
ridden to and from the "Cock and Anchor" at least half a dozen times.
He, therefore, hurriedly bade good-night, with many a fond vow of
eternal friendship for the two companions of his princely revelry,
mounted his horse with some little difficulty, and becoming every
moment more and more confused, and less and less perpendicular, found
himself at length--with an indistinct remembrance of having had several
hundred falls upon every possible part of his body, and upon every
possible geological substance, from soft alluvial mud up to plain
lime-stone, during the course of his progress--within the brick
precincts of the city. The horse, with an instinctive contempt for Mr.
Toole's judgment, wholly disregarded that gentleman's vehement appeals
to the bridle, and quietly pursued his well-known way to the hostelry
of the "Cock and Anchor."
Our honest friend had hardly dismounted, which he did with one eye
closed, and a hiccough, and a happy smile which mournfully contrasted
with his filthy and battered condition, when he at once became
absolutely insensible, from which condition he did not recover till
next morning, when he found himself partially in bed, quite undressed,
with the exception of his breeches, boots, and spurs, which he had
forgotten to remove, and which latter, along with his feet, he had
deposited upon the pillow, allowing his head to slope gently downward
towards the foot of the bed.
As soon as Mr. Toole had ascertained where he was, and begun to
recollect how he came there, he removed his legs from the pillow, and
softly slid upon the floor. His first solicitude was for his clothes,
the spattered and villainous condition of which appalled him; his next
was to endeavour to remember whether or not his master had witnessed
his weakness. Absorbed in this severe effort of memory, he sat upon the
bedside, gazing upon the floor, and scratching his head, when the door
opened, and his friend the groom entered the chamber.
"I say, old gentleman, you've been having a little bit of a spree,"
observed he, gazing pleasantly upon the disconsolate figure of the
little man, who sat in his shirt and jack-boots, staring at him with a
woe-begone and bewildered air. "Why, you had a bushel of mud about your
body when you came in, and no hat at all. Well, you _had_ a pleasant
night of it--there's no denying that."
"No hat;" said Larry desolately. "It isn't possible I dropped my hat
off my head unknownest. Bloody wars, my hat! is it gone in airnest?"
"Yes, young gentleman, you came here bareheaded. The hat _is_ gone, and
that's a fact," replied the groom.
"I thought my coat was bad enough; but--oh! blur-anagers, my hat!"
ejaculated Larry with abandonment. "Bad luck go with the
liquor--tare-an-ouns, my hat!"
"There's a shoe off the horse," observed the groom; "and the seat is
gone out of your breeches as clean as if it never was in it. Well, but
you _had_ a pleasant evening of it--you had."
"An' my breeches desthroyed--ruined beyant cure! See, Tom Berry, take a
blundherbuz, will you, and put me out of pain at wonst. My breeches!
Oh, divil go with the liquor! Holy Moses, is it possible?--my
breeches!"
In an agony of contrition and desperate remorse, Larry Toole clasped
his hands over his eyes and remained for some minutes silent; at length
he said--
"An' what did the masther say? Don't be keeping me in pain--out with it
at wonst."
"What master?" inquired the groom.
"What masther?" echoed Mr. Toole--"why Mr. O'Connor, to be sure."
"I'm sure I can't say," replied the man; "I have not seen him this
month."
"Wasn't he here before me last night?" inquired the little man.
"No, nor after neither," replied his visitor.
"Do you mane to tell me that he's not in the house at all?"
interrogated Mr. Toole.
"Yes," replied he, "Mr. O'Connor is _not_ in the house; the horse did
not cross the yard this month. Will that do you?"
"Be the hoky," said Larry, "that's exthramely quare. But are you raly
sure and quite sartin?"
"Yes, I tell you yes," replied he.
"Well, well," said Mr. Toole, "but that puts me to the divil's rounds
to undherstand it--not come at all. What in the world's gone with
him--not come--where else could he go to? Begorra, the whole iv the
occurrences iv last night is a blaggard mysthery. What the divil's gone
with him--where is he at all?--why couldn't he wait a bit for me an'
I'd iv tuck the best care iv him? but gintlemen is always anruly. What
the divil's keepin' him? I wouldn't be surprised if he made a baste iv
himself in some public-house last night. A man ought never to take a
dhrop more than jist what makes him plisant--bad luck to it. Lend me a
breeches, an' I'll pray for you all the rest of my days. I must go out
at wonst an' look for him; maybe he's at Mr. Audley's lodgings--ay,
sure enough, it's there he is. Bad luck to the liquor. Why the divil
did I let him go alone? Oh! sweet bad luck to it," he continued in
fierce anguish, as he held up the muddy wreck of his favourite coat
before his aching eyes--"my elegant coat--bad luck to it again--an' my
beautiful hat--once more bad luck to it; an' my breeches--oh! it's
fairly past bearin'--my elegant breeches! Bad luck to it for a
threacherous drop--an' the masther lost, and no one knows what's done
with him. Up with that poker, I tell you, and blow my brains out at
once; there's nothing before me in this life but the divil's own
delight--finish me, I tell you, and let me rest in the shade. I'll
never hould up my head again, there's no use in purtendin'. Oh! bad
luck to the dhrink!"
In this distracted frame of mind did Larry continue for nearly an hour,
after which, with the aid of some contributions from the wardrobe of
honest Tom Berry, he clothed himself, and went forth in quest of his
master.