ere was no
harbour, and sometimes, like this one, into the heart of a bog.'

'That was very spiteful and very mean, too,' said Walpole.

'Wasn't it just mean, and nothing else! and it's five miles we'll have to
go back now to the cross-roads. Begorra, your honour, it's a good dhrink
ye'll have to give me for this day's work.'

'You forget, my friend, that but for your own confounded stupidity, I
should have been at Kilgobbin Castle by this time.'

'And ye'll be there yet, with God's help!' said he, turning the horse's
head. 'Bad luck to them for the road-making, and it's a pity, after all, it
goes nowhere, for it's the nicest bit to travel in the whole country.'

'Come now, jump up, old fellow, and make your beast step out. I don't want
to pass the night here.'

'You wouldn't have a dhrop of whisky with your honour?'

'Of course not.'

'Nor even brandy?'

'No, not even brandy.'

'Musha, I'm thinking you must be English,' muttered he, half sulkily.

'And if I were, is there any great harm in that?'

'By coorse not; how could ye help it? I suppose we'd all of us be better
if we could. Sit a bit more forward, your honour; the belly band does be
lifting her, and as you're doing nothing, just give her a welt of that
stick in your hand, now and then, for I lost the lash off my whip, and I've
nothing but this!' And he displayed the short handle of what had once been
a whip, with a thong of leather dangling at the end.

'I must say I wasn't aware that I was to have worked my passage,' said
Walpole, with something between drollery and irritation.

'She doesn't care for bating--stick her with the end of it. That's the way.
We'll get on elegant now. I suppose you was never here before?'

'No; and I think I can promise you I'll not come again.'

'I hope you will, then, and many a time too. This is the Bog of Allen
you're travelling now, and they tell there's not the like of it in the
three kingdoms.'

'I trust there's not!'

'The English, they say, has no bogs. Nothing but coal.'

'Quite true.'

'Erin, _ma bouchal_ you are! first gem of the say! that's what Dan
O'Connell always called you. Are you gettin' tired with the stick?'

'I'm tired of your wretched old beast, and your car, and yourself, too,'
said Walpole; 'and if I were sure that was the castle yonder, I'd make my
way straight to it on foot.'

'And why wouldn't you, if your honour liked it best? Why would ye be
beholden to a car if you'd rather w