Sunday at Blake's of Blakemount; 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