AN OLD SPORTSMAN. 69 



which a man in a flannel jacket is looking at 

 us. This is Mr. Callaghan, one of the greatest 

 idlers and best-natured ne'er-do-weels I ever 

 met amongst the Irish peasantry. He visibly 

 brightens as he sees us ; he will walk with us 

 all day " to show his honour the birds/' and so 

 excuse himself for not finishing his drains or 

 the Sunday coat he has promised to make for 

 the parish clerk of Glenaugh. 



" MornhV, gintlemen, mornin' t'ye ! Did 

 ye do much ?" 



"Pretty well, Tim. We heard you saw 

 some cock about here." 



"Yis, sir; I put up a brace o' 'em over 

 foreninst the strame. Maybe yer honners 

 would come in and take a sate while I get my 

 kipeen (stick) to bate the broshna (furze)." 

 (Enter the Casa Callaghana). 

 The smoke and stuffiness of the place is 

 dreadful. A young comely woman, the lady 

 of the house, greets us, and takes off the floor 

 out of the way a curly -pated beautiful young 

 Celt, smirched with the gutter confection 

 which he has been manufacturing since he 

 got up at cockcrow. The room has no ceil- 



