On one of the stools standing in the centre of the floor was seated a man, who could not be the mustanger himself. In no way did he present the semblance of a proprietor. On the contrary, the air of the servitor—the mien of habitual obedience—was impressed upon him beyond the chance of misconstruction.
Rude as was the cabin that sheltered him, no one entering under its roof would have mistaken him for its master.
Not that he appeared ill clad or fed, or in any way stinted in his requirements. He was a round plump specimen, with a shock of carrot-coloured hair and a bright ruddy skin, habited in a suit of stout stuff—half corduroy, half cotton-velvet. The corduroy was in the shape of a pair of knee-breeches, with gaiters to correspond; the velveteen, once bottle green, now faded to a brownish hue, exhibited itself in a sort of shooting coat, with ample pockets in the breast and skirts.
A “wide-awake” hat, cocked over a pair of eyes equally deserving the appellation, completed the costume of the individual in question—if we except a shirt of coarse calico, a red cotton kerchief loosely knotted around his neck, and a pair of Irish brogues upon his feet.
It needed neither the brogues, nor the corduroy breeches, to proclaim his nationality. His lips, nose, eyes, air, and attitude, were all unmistakably Milesian.
Had there been any ambiguity about this, it would have been dispelled as he opened his mouth for the emission of speech; and this he at intervals did, in an accent that could only have been acquired in the shire of Galway. As he was the sole human occupant of the cabin, it might be supposed that he spoke only in soliloquy. Not so, however. Couched upon a piece of horse-skin, in front of the fire, with snout half buried among the ashes, was a canine companion, whose appearance bespoke a countryman—a huge Irish staghound, that looked as if he too understood the speech of Connemara.
Whether he did so or not, it was addressed to him, as if he was expected to comprehend every word.
“Och, Tara, me jewel!” exclaimed he in the corduroys, fraternally interrogating the hound; “hadn’t yez weesh now to be back in Ballyballagh? Wadn’t yez loike to be wance more in the coortyard av the owld castle, friskin’ over the clane stones, an bein’ tripe-fed till there wasn’t a rib to be seen in your sides—so different from what they are now—when I kyan count ivery wan av them? Sowl! it’s meself that ud loike to be there, anyhow! But there’s no knowin’ when the young masther ’ll go back, an take us along wid him. Niver mind, Tara! He’s goin’ to the Sittlements soon, ye owld dog; an he’s promised to take us thare; that’s some consolashun. Be japers! it’s over three months since I’ve been to the Fort, meself. Maybe I’ll find some owld acquaintance among them Irish sodgers that’s come lately; an be me sowl, av I do, won’t there be a dhrap betwane us—won’t there, Tara?”
The staghound, raising his head at hearing the mention of his name, gave a slight sniff, as if saying “Yes” in answer to the droll interrogatory.
“I’d like a dhrap now,” continued the speaker, casting a covetous glance towards the wickered jar; “mightily I wud that same; but the dimmyjan is too near bein’ empty, an the young masther might miss it. Besides, it wudn’t be raal honest av me to take it widout lave—wud it, Tara?”
The dog again raised his head above the ashes, and sneezed as before.
“Why, that was yis, the last time ye spoke! Div yez mane is for the same now? Till me, Tara!”
Once more the hound gave utterance to the sound—that appeared to be caused either by a slight touch of influenza, or the ashes having entered his nostrils.
“‘Yis’ again? In trath that’s just fwhat the dumb crayther manes! Don’t timpt me, ye owld thief! No—no; I won’t touch the whisky. I’ll only draw the cork out av the dimmyjan, an take a smell at it. Shure the masther won’t know anything about that; an if he did, he wudn’t mind it! Smellin’ kyant do the pothyeen any harm.”
During the concluding portion of this utterance, the speaker had forsaken his seat, and approached the corner where stood the jar.
Notwithstanding the professed innocence of his intent, there was a stealthiness about his movements, that seemed to argue either a want of confidence in his own integrity, or in his power to resist temptation.
He stood for a short while listening—his eyes turned towards the open doorway; and then, taking up the demijohn, he drew out the stopper, and held the neck to his nose.
For some seconds he remained in this attitude: giving out no other sign than an occasional “sniff,” similar to that uttered by the hound, and which he had been fain to interpret as an affirmative answer to his interrogatory. It expressed the enjoyment he was deriving from the bouquet of the potent spirit.
But this only satisfied him for a very short time; and gradually the bottom of the jar was seen going upwards, while the reverse end descended in like ratio in the direction of his protruding lips.
“Be japers!” he exclaimed, once more glancing stealthily towards the door, “flesh and blood cudn’t stand the smell av that bewtiful whisky, widout tastin’ it. Trath! I’ll chance it—jist the smallest thrifle to wet the tap av my tongue. Maybe it’ll burn the skin av it; but no matther—here goes!”
Without further ado the neck of the demijohn was brought in contact with his lips; but instead of the “smallest thrifle” to wet the top of his tongue, the “gluck—gluck” of the escaping fluid told that he was administering a copious saturation to the whole lining of his larynx, and something more.
After half a dozen “smacks” of the mouth, with other exclamations denoting supreme satisfaction, he hastily restored the stopper; returned the demijohn to its place; and glided back to his seat upon the stool.
“Tara, ye owld thief!” said he, addressing himself once more to his canine companion, “it was you that timpted me! No matther, man: the masther ’ll niver miss it; besides, he’s goin’ soon to the Fort, an can lay in a fresh supply.”
For a time the pilferer remained silent; either reflecting on the act he had committed, or enjoying the effects which the “potheen” had produced upon his spirits.
His silence was of short duration; and was terminated by a soliloquy.
“I wondher,” muttered he, “fwhat makes Masther Maurice so anxious to get back to the Sittlements. He says he’ll go wheniver he catches that spotty mustang he has seen lately. Sowl! isn’t he bad afther that baste! I suppose it must be somethin’ beyant the common—the more be token, as he has chased the crayther three times widout bein’ able to throw his rope over it—an mounted on the blood-bay, too. He sez he won’t give it up, till he gets howlt of it. Trath! I hope it’ll be grupped soon, or wez may stay here till the marnin’ av doomsday. Hush! fwhat’s that?”
Tara springing up from his couch of skin, and rushing out with a low growl, had caused the exclamation.
“Phelim!” hailed a voice from the outside. “Phelim!”
“It’s the masther,” muttered Phelim, as he jumped from his stool, and followed the dog through the doorway.
Chapter Six.
The Spotted Mustang.
Phelim was not mistaken as to the voice that had hailed him. It was that of his master, Maurice Gerald.
On getting outside, he saw the mustanger at a short distance from the door, and advancing towards it.
As the servant should have expected, his master was mounted upon his horse—no longer of a reddish colour, but appearing almost black. The animal’s coat was darkened with sweat; its counter and flanks speckled with foam.
The blood-bay was not alone. At the end of the lazo—drawn