"
"By all accounts," said Arthur, or, as he was called, Art, "Hycy, the
sportheen, has pulled him down a bit. He's not so rich now, they say, as
he was three or four years ago."
"He's rich enough still," observed his father; "but at any rate, upon
my sowl I'm sorry for him; he's the crame of an honest, kind-hearted
neighbor; an' I believe in my conscience if there's a man alive that
hasn't an ill-wisher, he is."
"Is it known who robbed him?" asked the grandfather, "or does he suspect
anybody?"
"It's not known, of course, grandfather," replied Bryan, "or I suppose
they would be in limbo before now; but there's quare talk about it. The
Hogans is suspected, it seems. Philip was caught examinin' the hall-door
the night before; an' that does look suspicious."
"Ay," said the old man, "an' very likely they're the men. I remember
them this many a long day; it's forty years since Andy Hogan--he was
lame--Andy Boccah they called him--was hanged for the murdher of your
great-granduncle, Billy Shevlin, of Frughmore, so that they don't like
a bone in our bodies. That was the only murdher I remember of them, but
many a robbery was laid to their charge; an' every now and then
there was always sure to be an odd one transported for thievin', an'
house-breakin', and sich villainy."
"I wouldn't be surprised," said Mrs.
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