No sooner proposed than acceded to—­off we set, for the eulogised
“Bannaker banging Mikey Brian.”

A stout, handsome boy he was—­rising four-and-twenty—­a fighting, kissing, rollicking, ball-playing, dancing vagabone, as you’d see in a day’s march—­such a fellow as you only meet in Ireland—­a bit of a gardener, a bit of a groom, a bit of a futboy, and a bit of a horse-docthor.

We reached the stables by the back way, and there, in his own peculiar loft, was Mikey Brian, brushing a somewhat faded livery, in which to wait upon the coming quality.

Bob stated the case, as far as the want of our locks’ curtailment went, but made no mention of the delay which occasioned our coming to Mikey; on the contrary, he attributed the preference solely to our conviction of his superior abilities, and the wish to give him a chance, as he felt convinced, if he had fair play, he’d be engaged miles round, instead of the hopping old shaver at Kells.

“I’m your man, Masther Robert.”

“Who’s first?”

“I am—­there’s the fi’penny—­that’s for the lot!”

“Good luck to you, sit down—­will you have the Currah thoro’bred-cut?”

“That’s the thing,” said Bob.

“Then, young gentlement, as there ain’t much room—­and if you do be all looking on, I’ll be bothered—­just come in one by one.”

Out we went, and, in an inconceivably short space, Bob emerged.

Mikey advising:  “Master Robert, dear, keep your hat on for the life of you, for fear of cowld.”  A few minutes finished us all.

“This is elegant,” said Bob.  “Mikey, it will be the making of you; but don’t say a word till you hear how they’ll praise you at dinner.”

“Mum!” said Mikey, and off we rushed.

I felt rather astonished at the ease with which my hat sat; while those of the rest appeared ready to fall over their noses.  Being in a hurry, this was passed over.  The second dinner-bell rang—­we bolted up for a brief ablution—­our hats were thrown into a corner, and, as if by one consent, all eyes were fixed upon each other’s heads!

Bob gave tongue:  “The Devil’s skewer to Mikey Brian! and bad luck to the Currah thoro’bred cut!  Not the eighth part of an inch of ’air there is amongst the set of us.  What will the master say?  Never mind; we’ve got the fi’pennies!  Come to dinner!—­by the Puck we are beauties!”

We reached the dining-room unperceived; but who can describe the agony of my aunt Kate, when she clapped her eyes upon five such close-clipped scarecrows.  She vowed vengence of all sorts and descriptions against the impudent, unnatural, shameful monster!  Terms which Mikey Brian, in the back-ground, appropriated to himself, and with the utmost difficulty restrained his rising wrath from breaking out.

“What,” continued aunt Kate, “what does he call this?”

“It’s the thoro’bred Currah-cut, ma’am,” said Bob, with one of his peculiar glances at Mikey and the rest.