"Where did you ride to this mornin' Misther Hycy?"
"Down to take a look at Tom Burton's mare, Crazy Jane, ma'am:--
"'Away, my boys, to horse away,
The Chase admits of no delay--'"
"Tom Burton!" re-echoed the father with a groan; "an so you're in Tom
Burton's hands! A swindlin', horse-dalin' scoundrel that would chate St.
Pether. Hycy, my man, if you go to look for wool to Tom you'll come home
shorn."
"'Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule
Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown bowl,
That there's wrath and despair--"
Thank you, father--much obliged; you entertain a good opinion of me."
"Do I, faith? Don't be too sure of that."
"I've bought her at any rate," said Hycy--"thirty-five's the figure; but
she's a dead bargain at fifty."
"Bought her!" exclaimed the father; "an' how, in God's name, do you
expect to pay for her?"
"By an order on a very excellent, worthy man and
gentleman-farmer--ycleped James Burke, Esquire--who has the honor
of being father to that ornament of the barony, Hycy Burke, the
accomplished. My worthy sire will fork out."
"If I do, that I may--"
"Silence, poor creature!" said his wife, clapping her hand upon his
mouth--"make no rash or vulgar oaths. Surely, Misther Burke--"
"How often did I bid you not to misther me? Holy scrapers, am I to be
misthered and pesthered this way, an' my name plane Jemmy Burke!"
"You see, Hycy, the vulgarian will come out," said his mother.
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