he had a cigar in his mouth, and was searching for a piece of well-kindled turf, wherewith to light it.  A little fat oily shopkeeper in the town, who called himself a woollen merchant, was standing with the raised leaf of the counter in his hand, roaring with laughter at the manager’s story.  Two frieze coated farmers, outside the counter, were stretching across it, and whispering very audibly to Daly some details of litigation which did not appear very much to interest him; and a couple of idle blackguards were leaning against the wall, ready to obey any behest of the attorney’s which might enable them to earn a sixpence without labour, and listening with all their ears to the different interesting topics of conversation which might be broached in the inner office.

“Here’s the very man I’m waiting for, at last,” said Daly, when, from his position on the stool, he saw, through the two open doors, the bloated red face of Barry Lynch approaching; and, giving an impulse to his body by a shove against the wall behind him, he raised himself on to the counter, and, assisting himself by a pull at the collar of the frieze coat of the farmer who was in the middle of his story, jumped to the ground, and met his client at the front door.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Lynch,” said he as soon as he had shaken hands with him, “but will you just step up to my room a minute, for I want to spake to you;” and he took him up into his bed-room, for he hadn’t a second sitting-room.  “You’ll excuse my bringing you up here, for the office was full, you see, and Moylan’s in the parlour.”

“The d——­l he is!  He came round then, did he, eh, Daly?”

“Oh, I’ve had a terrible hard game to play with him.  I’d no idea he’d be so tough a customer, or make such a good fight; but I think I’ve managed him.”

“There was a regular plan then, eh, Daly?  Just as I said.  It was a regular planned scheme among them?”

“Wait a moment, and you’ll know all about it, at least as much as I know myself; and, to tell the truth, that’s devilish little.  But, if we manage to break off the match, and get your sister clane out of the inn there, you must give Moylan your agency, at any rate for two or three years.”

“You haven’t promised that?”

“But I have, though.  We can do nothing without it:  it was only when I hinted that, that the old sinner came round.”

“But what the deuce is it he’s to do for us, after all?”

“He’s to allow us to put him forward as a bugbear, to frighten the Kellys with:  that’s all, and, if we can manage that, that’s enough.  But come down now.  I only wanted to warn you that, if you think the agency is too high a price to pay for the man’s services, whatever they may be, you must make up your mind to dispense with them.”

“Well,” answered Barry, as he followed the attorney downstairs, “I can’t understand what you’re about; but I suppose you must be right;” and they went into the little parlour where Moylan was sitting.