country, and while no
one could exactly make out what _he_ was, or how he made the two ends of
his year meet, he knew nearly as much of every one's affairs as they did
themselves; in the phrase of the country, he was "as 'cute as a fox, as
close as wax, and as deep as a draw-well."

The supper-party sat down in the kitchen, and between every three
mouthfuls poor Mick could get, he was obliged to canter up-stairs at
the call of the fiercely rung bell. Ever and anon, as he returned, he
bolted his allowance with an ejaculation, sometimes pious, sometimes
the reverse, on the hard fate of attending such a "born devil," as he
called the Squire.

"Why he's worse nor ever, to-night," says the cook. "What ails him at
all--what is it all about?"

"Oh, he's blackguardin' and blastin' away about that quare
slink-lookin' chap, up-stairs, goin' to Squire Egan's instead of comin'
here."

"That was a bit o' your handy work," said Larry, with a grim smile at
Andy.

"And then," said Mick, "he's swearin' by all the murthers in the world
agen the whole counthry, about some letthers was stole out of the
post-office by somebody."

Andy's hand was in the act of raising a mouthful to his lips, when
these words were uttered; his hand fell, and his mouth remained open.
Larry Hogan had his eye on him at the moment.

"He swares he'll have some one in the body o' the jail," said Mick;
"and he'll never stop till he sees them swing."

Andy thought of the effigy on the wall, and his dream, and grew pale.

"By the hokey," said Mick, "I never see him in sitch a tattherin'
rage!"--bang went the bell again--"Ow, ow!" cried Mick, bolting a piece
of fat bacon, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his livery, and running
up-stairs.

"Misses Cook, ma'am," said Andy, shoving back his chair from the table;
"thank you, ma'am, for your good supper. I think I'll be goin' now."

"Sure, you're not done yet, man alive."

"Enough is as good as a feast, ma'am," replied Andy.

"Augh! sure the morsel you took is more like a fast than a feast," said
the cook, "and it's not Lent."

"It's not lent, sure enough," said Larry Hogan, with a sly grin; "it's
not _lent_, for you _gave_ it to him."

"Ah, Misther Hogan, you're always goin' on with your conundherums,"
said the cook; "sure, that's not the lent I mane at all--I mane Good
Friday Lent."

"Faix, every Friday is good Friday that a man gets his supper," said
Larry.

"Well, you _will_ be goin' on, Misthe