“What other man’s head?—­nobody has it yet.”

“Ay, has there—­a very daicent respectable man has it, by name one Darby Skinadre. (May he never warm his hungry nose in the same farm, the miserable keowt that he is this day,” he added in another soliloquy, which escaped the pedlar):  “a very honest man is Darby Skinadre, so you may save yourself the trouble, I say.”

“At any rate there’s no harm in tryin’—­worse than fail we can’t, an’ if we succeed it’ll be good to come in for anything from the ould scoundrel, before the devil gets him.”

Jemmy gave him a look.

“Why, what have you to say against the ould boy?  Sure it’s not casting reflections on your own masther you’d be.”

“Oh, not at all,” replied the pedlar, “especially when I’m expectin’ a favor from one of his sarvints.  Throth he’ll soon by all accounts have his hook in the ould Clip o’ the!  Grange—­an’ afther that some of his friends will soon folly him.  I wouldn’t be mainin’ one Jemmy Branigan.  Oh, dear no—­but it’s a sure case that’s the Black Boy’s intention to take the whole family by instalments, an’ wid respect to the sarvints to place them in their ould situations.  Faith you’ll have a warm berth of it, Jemmy, an’ well you desarve it.”

“Why then you circulating vagabone,” replied Jemmy; “if you wern’t a close friend to him, you’d not know his intentions so well.  Don’t let out on yourself, man alive, unless you have the face to be proud of your acquaintance, which in throth is more than anyone, barrin’ the same set, could be of you.”

“Well, well,” retorted the pedlar, “sure blood alive, as we’re all of the same connection, let us not quarrel now, but sarve another if we can.  Go an’ tell the old blackguard I want to see him about business.”

“Will I tell him you’re itchy about the houghs?—­eh?  However, the thruth is, that they,”—­and he pointed to the stocks—­“might be justice, but no novelty to you.  The iron gathers is an ornament you often wore, an’ will again, plase goodness.”

“Throth, and. your ornament is one you’ll never wear a second time—­the hemp collar will grace your neck yet; but never mind, you’re leadin’ the life to desarve it.  See now if I can spake a word wid your masther for a poor family.”

“Why, then, to avoid your tongue, I may as well tell you that himself, Masther Richard, and Darby Skinadre’s in the office; an’ if you can use the same blackguard tongue as well in a good cause as you can in a bad one, it would be well for the poor crayturs.  Go in now, an’,” he added in another soliloquy, “may the Lord prosper his virtuous endayvors, the vagabone; although all hope o’ that’s past, I doubt; for hasn’t Skinadre the promise, and Masther Richard the bribe?  However, who can tell?—–­so God prosper the vagabone, I say again.”

The pedlar, on entering, found old Henderson sitting in an arm-chair, with one of his legs, as usual, bandaged and stretched out before him on another chair.  He seemed much worn and debilitated, and altogether had the appearance of a man whose life was not worth a single week’s purchase.  Skinadre was about taking leave of his patron, the son, who had been speaking to him as the pedlar entered.