"I was there, seeing the horse taken care of; and, knowing the cut
of the fellow's jib, what does I do, but whips the body clothes off
Naboclish, and claps them upon a garrone, that the priest would not
ride.

"In comes the bailiff--'Good morrow to you, sir,' says I, leading out
of the stable my lord's horse, with an _ould_ saddle and bridle on.

"'Tim Neal,' says I to the groom, who was rubbing down the garrone's
heels, 'mind your hits to-day, and _wee'l_ wet the plate to-night."

"'Not so fast, neither,' says the bailiff--'here's my writ for seizing
the horse.'

"'Och,' says I, 'you wouldn't be so cruel.'

"'That's all my eye,' says he, seizing the garrone, while I mounted
Naboclish, and rode him off deliberately."

"Ha! ha! ha!--That _was_ neat, I grant you, Terry," said Lord
Clonbrony. "But what a dolt of a born ignoramus must that sheriff's
fellow have been, not to know Naboclish when he saw him!"

"But stay, my lord--stay, Miss Nugent--I have more for you," following
her wherever she moved--"I did not let him off so, even. At the cant,
I bid and bid against them for the pretended Naboclish, till I left
him on their hands for 500 guineas--ha! ha! ha!--was not that famous?"

"But," said Miss Nugent, "I cannot believe you are in earnest, Sir
Terence--Surely this would be--"