When we were once more in the coupe of the diligence, I directed my entire attention towards my Irish acquaintance, as well because of his apparent singularity, as to avoid the little German in the opposite corner.

“You have not been long in France, then, sir,” said I, as we resumed our conversation.

“Three weeks, and it seems like three years to me—­nothing to eat—­nothing to drink—­and nobody to speak to.  But I’ll go back soon —­I only came abroad for a month.”

“You’ll scarcely see much of the Continent in so short a time.”

“Devil a much that will grieve me—­I didn’t come to see it.”

“Indeed!”

“Nothing of the kind; I only came—­to be away from home.”

“Oh!  I perceive.”

“You’re quite out there,” said my companion, misinterpreting my meaning.  “It wasn’t any thing of that kind.  I don’t owe sixpence.  I was laughed out of Ireland—­that’s all, though that same is bad enough.”

“Laughed out of it!”

“Just so—­and little you know of Ireland if that surprises you.”

After acknowledging that such an event was perfectly possible, from what I myself had seen of that country, I obtained the following very brief account of my companion’s reasons for foreign travel: 

“Well, sir,” began he, “it is about four months since I brought up to Dublin from Galway a little chesnut mare, with cropped ears and a short tail, square-jointed, and rather low—­just what you’d call a smart hack for going to cover with—­a lively thing on the road with a light weight.  Nobody ever suspected that she was a clean bred thing—­own sister to Jenny, that won the Corinthians, and ran second to Giles for the Riddlesworth—­but so she was, and a better bred mare never leaped the pound in Ballinasloe.  Well, I brought her to Dublin, and used to ride her out two or three times a week, making little matches sometimes to trot—­and, for a thorough bred, she was a clipper at trotting—­to trot a mile or so on the grass—­another day to gallop the length of the nine acres opposite the Lodge—­and then sometimes, back her for a ten pound note, to jump the biggest furze bush that could be found—­all or which she could do with ease, nobody thinking, all the while, that the cock-tailed pony was out of Scroggins, by a “Lamplighter mare.”  As every fellow that was beat to-day was sure to come back to-morrow, with something better, either of his own or a friend’s, I had matches booked for every day in the week—­for I always made my little boy that rode, win by half a neck, or a nostril, and so we kept on day after day pocketing from ten to thirty pounds or thereabouts.

“It was mighty pleasant while it lasted, for besides winning the money, I had my own fun laughing at the spoonies that never could book my bets fast enough.  Young infantry officers and the junior bar—­they were for the most part mighty nice to look at, but very raw about racing.  How long I might have gone on in this way I cannot say; but one morning I fell in with a fat, elderly gentleman, in shorts and gaiters, mounted on a dun cob pony, that was very fidgety and hot tempered, and appeared to give the rider a great deal of uneasiness.