Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas. Lever Charles James

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      “Yonder, sir, where the two trees are standing.”

      “Have you seen the coach pass, – the mail for Athlone?”

      “Yes, sir, she went through the town about half an hour ago.”

      “Are ye certain, boy? are ye quite sure of this?” cried he, in a voice of great agitation.

      “I am quite sure, sir; they always change horses at Moone’s public-house; and I saw them ‘draw up’ there more than half an hour since.”

      “Is there no other coach passes this road for Dublin?”

      “The night mail, sir, but she does not go to-night; this is Saturday.”

      “What is to be done?” said the youth, in deep sorrow; and he seated himself on a stone as he spoke, and hid his face between his hands.

      As he sat thus, I had time to mark him well, and scan every detail of his appearance.

      Although tall and stoutly knit, he could not have been above sixteen, or at most seventeen, years of age; his dress, a kind of shooting-jacket, was made in a cut that affected fashion; and I observed on one finger of his very white hand a ring which, even to my uneducated eyes, bespoke considerable value.

      He looked up at last, and his eyes were very red, and a certain trembling of the lips showed that he was much affected. “I suppose, my lad, I can find a chaise or a carriage of some kind in Kilbeggan?” said he; “for I have lost the mail. I had got out for a walk, and by the advice of a countryman taken this path over the bog, expecting, as he told me, it would cut off several miles of way. I suppose I must have mistaken him, for I have been running for above an hour, and am too late after all; but still, if I can find a chaise, I shall be in time yet.”

      “They ‘re all gone, sir,” said I; “and sorry am I to have such tidings to tell. The Sessions broke up to-day, and they’re away with the lawyers to Kinnegad.”

      “And how far is that from us?”

      “Sixteen miles or more, by the road.”

      “And how am I to get there?”

      “Unless ye walk it – ”

      “Walk! impossible. I am dead beat already; besides, the time it would take would lose me all chance of reaching Dublin as I want.”

      “Andy Smith has a horse, if he’d lend it; and there’s a short road by Hogan’s boreen.”

      “Where does this Smith live?” said he, stopping me impatiently.

      “Not a half mile from here; you can see the house from this.”

      “Come along, then, and show me the way, my boy,” said he; and the gleam of hope seemed to lend alacrity to his movements.

      Away we set together, and as we went, it was arranged between us that if Andy would hire out his mare, I should accompany the rider as guide, and bring back the animal to its owner, while the traveller proceeded on his journey to town.

      The negotiation was tedious enough; for, at first, Andy would n’t appear at all; he thought it was a process-server was after him, – a suspicion probably suggested by my presence, as it was generally believed that a rag of my father’s mantle had descended to me. It was only after a very cautious and careful scrutiny of the young traveller through a small glass eye – it wasn’t a window – in the mud wall that he would consent to come out. When he did so, he treated the proposal most indignantly. “Is it he hire out his baste? as if she was a dirty garraun of Betty Nowlan’s of the head inn; he wondered who ‘d ask the like!” and so on.

      The youth, deterred by this reception, would have abandoned the scheme at once; but I, better acquainted with such characters as Andy, and knowing that his difficulties were only items in the intended charge, higgled, and bargained, and bullied, and blarneyed by turns; and, after some five and forty minutes of alternate joking and abusing each other, it was at last agreed on that the “baste” was to be ceded for the sum of fifteen shillings, – “two and sixpence more if his honor was pleased with the way she carried him;” the turnpike and a feed of oats being also at the charge of the rider, as well as all repairs of shoes incurred by loss or otherwise. Then there came a supplemental clause as to the peculiar care of the animal. How “she was n’t to be let drink too much at once, for she ‘d get the colic;” and if she needed shoeing, she was to have a “twitch” on her nose, or she’d kick the forge to “smithereens.” The same precaution to be taken if the saddle required fresh girthing; a hint was given, besides, not to touch her with the left heel, or she ‘d certainly kick the rider with the hind leg of the same side; and, as a last caution given, to be on our guard at the cross-roads at Toomes-bridge, or she’d run away towards Croghan, where she once was turned out in foal. “Barring” these peculiarities, and certain smaller difficulties about mounting, “she was a lamb, and the sweetest-tempered crayture ever was haltered.”

      In the very midst of this panegyric upon the animal’s good and noble qualities he flung open the door of a little shed, and exhibited her to our view. I verily believe, whatever the urgency of the youth’s reason for proceeding, that his heart failed him at the sight of the steed; a second’s reconsideration seemed to rally his courage, and he said, “No matter, it can’t be helped; saddle her at once, and let us be off.”

      “That’s easier said nor done,” muttered Andy to himself, as he stood at the door, without venturing a step farther. “Con,” said he, at last, in a species of coaxing tone I well knew boded peril, “Con, a cushla! get a hould of her by the head, that’s a fine chap; make a spring at the forelock.”

      “Maybe she ‘d kick – ”

      “Sorra kick! get up there, now, and I’ll be talking to you all the while.”

      This proposition, though doubtless meant as most encouraging, by no means reassured me.

      “Come, come! I’ll bridle the infernal beast,” said the youth, losing all patience with both of us, and he sprung forward into the stable; but barely had he time to jump back, as the animal let fly with both hind legs together. Andy, well aware of what was coming, pulled us both back and shut to the door, against which the hoofs kept up one rattling din of kicks that shook the crazy edifice from roof to ground.

      “Ye see what comes of startlin’ her; the crayture’s timid as a kid,” said Andy, whose blanched cheek badly corroborated his assumed composure. “Ye may do what ye plaze, barrin’ putting a bridle on her; she never took kindly to that!”

      “But do ye intend me to ride her without one?” said the youth.

      “By no manner of means, sir,” said Andy, with a plausible slowness on each word that gave him time to think of an expedient. “I would n’t be guilty of the like; none that knows me would ever say it to me: I ‘m a poor man – ”

      “You’re a devilish tiresome one,” broke in the youth, suddenly; “here we have been above half an hour standing at the door, and none the nearer our departure than when we arrived.”

      “Christy Moore could bridle her, if he was here,” said Andy; “but he’s gone to Moate, and won’t be back till evening; may be that would do?”

      A very impatient, and not very pious exclamation consigned Christy to an untimely fate. “Well, don’t be angry, anyhow, sir,” said Andy; “there’s many a thing a body СКАЧАТЬ