I was born in County Blank, Ireland, educated in Dublin, and chose for
profession—if profession it may be called—that of a tea-planter; but
times were bad, health failed me, and after ten years spent in Assam, I
returned to England with the intention of remaining, should a suitable
appointment be procurable. No one knows, however, till he tries how
difficult it is to find suitable employment on returning after a lapse
of years to one’s old haunts; the true reason of it being that there
is too large a proportion of the _genus homo_ collected together in
this corner of the globe. My parents had died during my absence, and
their property had passed into the hands of an elder brother with whom
I was not on good terms, so I did not revisit the old place. Hearing,
however, that my uncle, Sir Toby O’Bride, who owned considerable
estates in another county, was having some trouble with his tenants, I
thought I would cross over and see him.
My respected relative was in the act of shutting up house and beating
a hasty retreat from the country. No rents had been forthcoming for
some time, so he had lately changed his agent. The new one succeeded
in bringing a few of the tenants to their senses and the rents to Sir
Toby’s pocket, but two nights previous to my arrival the unfortunate
man was shot when returning home through the park, after dining with
Sir Toby. The police had some _suspects_ in charge; but as it proved,
they had no hand in the affair, and the guilt was never brought home to
the real perpetrator.
‘I don’t know,’ said my uncle, ‘what is to be done, but at present I
intend going away for a time. They will shoot at me next, if I remain.
This shocking affair has quite unnerved me.’ My uncle did indeed look
shaken and ill.
‘I have a plan,’ said I, ‘if I may suggest it? Let me take the agent’s
place, and see if I can improve matters. The people all know me more
or less, and if any of them try to make holes in me, they will find me
well prepared to retaliate. I mean this seriously, uncle. I am an idle
man at present, and will be more than pleased if you let me have my
way.’
He pooh-poohed my proposition at first, declaring it was simply
suicidal to attempt such a thing; but he finally consented, and I was
installed in the agent’s cosy cottage at a salary of four hundred
pounds per annum. The first step was to purchase ostentatiously a
pair of six-chambered revolvers, and erecting a target in the garden,
I peppered away at it. Whenever any one came to my office, I took
occasion to show what an excellent shot I was. The office window stood
high from the ground, and was furnished with iron bars and a grating
like that of a prison cell. When the tenantry came to pay their rent,
they found me seated at the table with one of my faithful beauties on
each side of me, and it was well known that I never left the house
without them.
Whether it was owing to my knowledge of the character of the people
with whom I had to deal, or whether it was their knowledge that I liked
them sincerely, but knew them too well to be ‘done’ by them or to fear
their threats, I cannot say; whichever way it was, no attempt was made
on my life, and a larger proportion of the rents due passed through my
hands in the course of the year than had through those of the agents
for some time previously. Of course, there were some tenants who could
not or would not pay their rent. Stories of bad harvests, cattle dying,
pigs getting measles, and starving families at home, came eloquently
from the glib tongues of the delinquents. Sometimes true, more or less,
generally less, for there was very little bad land on the estate.
Foremost amongst the last-named section was one named Delaney. He held
a good farm, which had been tenanted for generations back by Delaneys,
who had been counted good tenants in their day; but this Pat came under
the influence of agitators, who perverted his ideas of honesty.
Pat Delaney was among the first to refuse to pay his rent, and the
aggravating part of it was that I felt sure he had the money. He was
the best judge of horses in the country-side, and attended all the
fairs, doing a good deal of cattle-dealing in a quiet way, so that
in spite of bad seasons, he was counted a well-to-do man among his
fellows. But on rent-day not a shilling was forthcoming. The old
story—failure of the potato crop, bad harvest, wife sick, a lot of
mouths to fill, and ‘Wouldn’t I put in a word for him with the masther?
Shure, the kind ould masther wouldn’t be hard on a poor man. He would
pay up next rent-day for sartain.’
‘No, Pat,’ said I. ‘This is the second time you have brought me that
story. You are far behindhand with your rent; and if you don’t pay up
now, out you must go. The land is good and the rent low. If you can’t
make it pay, we must find another tenant who will. It goes against my
heart to turn you out, for Delaneys have been on the place for three
generations now; and I am sure you _can_ pay, if you like. The Delaneys
were never paupers before.’
Glancing sharply at him, I saw a flicker of indecision pass over his
countenance, and his hand fidgeted with the edge of his jacket; but
in a moment the former expression of doggedness came over his face
like a cloud; he straightened himself, and said insolently: ‘Shure an’
wouldn’t I pay if I could? It isn’t dishonest ye’re thinkin’ I am?’
An idea struck me. Changing my tone, I remarked indifferently: ‘O no;
the Delaneys were always honest. But if the money is not forthcoming,
out you must go, and there’s an end of the matter.’
Gathering up the books, I returned them to the safe, locked it, and
taking my hat, I turned to my companion and began confidentially: ‘I
want to ask your opinion about something, Pat. They tell me you are a
good judge of a nag; I want you to tell me what you think of one I
have in the stable just now.’
At the word ‘nag,’ Pat was all attention.
‘She’s a beauty, and, I imagine, should fetch a good deal. She belongs
to a friend of mine, who is hard up, and asked me if I could sell her
for him, which will be easily done; but I want your opinion of her.
There are two or three offers for her already. She was bought, I know,
for one hundred and twenty pounds; but that is a little time ago; and
my friend would take sixty pounds for her now, or even forty pounds,
down.’
Pat’s eyes scintillated, and I saw his hand tremble with eagerness.
By this time we had reached the stable where Black Bess, my beautiful
hunter, stood. She had arrived a week before, a gift from my uncle, Sir
Toby, and she looked her hundred and twenty guineas every inch, the
beauty!
‘Cheap at forty pounds, eh, Pat? Look at her points, man. I wish I
could buy her myself.’
‘She’s a purty crayture, sor,’ ejaculated Pat as he went over her
points with keen appreciation. Looking at her teeth, patting the
glossy, arched neck, and finally passing his hand down each leg, he
raised his head, and said in a sheepish sort of way: ‘She’s worth her
forty pounds, sor.’
‘Yes, I know that. Now, I thought you might know of some one wanting a
horse. Perhaps one of your friends might like to deal; but I must have
cash down.’
‘I know ov one man who moight take him, sor.’
‘Do you? Well, I’d be glad if you’d send him to me to-morrow; and if
the mare is still here, he may have her; but he must take his chance,
mind you. I have several offers, and “first come first served” is the
rule for this business. Sir Thomas Clarke has an eye on her, and would
probably give sixty pounds if I hung on a bit; but my friend wants the
money at once. Emerson of Bogside was here this morning, and liked the
looks of her; said he might look back in the afternoon and close the
bargain; so your friend must take his chance.’
‘Shure, sor, and ye moight jest keep her till me frind sees her
to-morrow. He’s sartain shure to take her, and cash down on the spot.’
Pat was most persuasive, and I saw by the gleam in his eye that he was
safe on my hook. He knew as well as I did that he had only to take her
to the first fair and he would get seventy or eighty pounds for her, if
not more.
‘No, no. A bargain is a bargain. I told Emerson that it would be a
case of first come first served. If Black Bess is here to-morrow, your
friend can have her, and welcome; but I cannot keep her for any one.’
A heavy footstep tramped up the garden path, and we heard a loud voice
asking for me.
‘Why, that must be Emerson back already!—Good-day, Pat; I don’t think I
need ask you to trouble your friend, after all.’
‘Stop, stop, sor; I’ll buy the mare meself, and here’s the money.’
Ripping open the lining of his jacket, he thrust a roll of dirty notes
into my hand.
Slowly I counted them, ‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight
five-pound notes. That makes forty. Thanks, Pat. Just half your rent!
Now, you go home and bring me the other half. I know you have it all,
and you cannot deny it.’
When I wrote to Sir Toby, I had the extreme satisfaction of telling him
that Delaney had paid up in full; and Black Bess carries me none the
worse for having been an unconscious actor in the little drama which
proved so successful.