* The proverb is pretty general throughout Tyrone.  The town
     of Clogher consists of only a single string of houses.

“Very well,” returned the stranger; “I have something to add, in order to make this arrangement more palatable to you.”

“Hold, sir,” replied the other; “before you proceed further, you must understand me.  I shall pledge myself under no terms—­and I care not what they may be—­to answer any question that may throw light upon my own personal identity, or past history.”

“That will not be necessary,” replied the stranger.

“What do you mean, sir,” asked Fenton, starting; “do you mean to hint that you know me?”

“Nonsense,” said the other; “how could I know a man whom I never saw before?  No; it is merely concerning the local history of Ballytrain and its inhabitants that I am speaking.”

There was a slight degree of dry irony, however, on his face, as he spoke.

“Well,” said the other, “in the mean time, I don’t see why I am to comply with a condition so dictatorially laid down by a person of whom I know nothing.”

“Why, the truth is,” said our strange friend, “that you are evidently a lively and intelligent fellow, not badly educated; I think—­and, as it is likely that you have no very direct connection with the inhabitants of the town and surrounding country, I take it for granted that, in the way of mere amusement, you may be able to—­”

“Hem!  I see—­to give you all the scandal of the place for miles about; that is what you would say? and so I can.  But suppose a spark of the gentleman should—­should—­but come, hang it, that is gone, hopelessly gone.  What is your wish?”

“In the first place, to see you better clothed.  Excuse me—­and, if I offend you, say so—­but it is not my wish to say anything that might occasion you pain.  Are you given to liquor?”

“Much oftener than liquor is given to me, I assure you; it is my meat, drink, washing, and lodging—­without it I must die.  And, harkee, now; when I meet a man I like, and who, after all, has a touch of humanity and truth about him, to such a man, I say, I myself am all truth, at whatever cost; but to every other—­to your knave, your hypocrite, or your trimmer, for instance, all falsehood—­deep, downright, wanton falsehood.  In fact, I would scorn to throw away truth upon them.

“You are badly dressed.”

“Ah! after all, how little is known of the human heart and character!” exclaimed Fenton.  “The subject of dress and the associations connected with it have all been effaced from my mind and feelings for years.  So long as we are capable of looking to our dress, there is always a sense of honor and self-respect left.  Dress I never think of, unless as a mere animal protection against the elements.”