“Mrs. O’Doolahan.”

“Yes, Squire Shea.”

“How many more toimes am I to order you to kape that divilish dirty ould sow out o’ me schmoking room?”

“Be me sowl, sir, the litter went flying through forninst her, and the poor sow was only follerin’ when ye banged the dure agen her.”

“Thin moind ye, Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan, for I’m not to be thrifled wid in this style, I want ye to kape the pigs and childer out o’ me schmoking-room, or, be the bright buckles on me shoes, I’ll have to ingage some wan ilse to kape the house; to kape the house for me, and not the pigs, mind ye, Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan.”

“I moind, squire.”

“Thin see that I don’t have to sphake again about the matter,” said Esquire Barney Shea, putting his thumbs under the arm-holes of his red silk vest and puffing out his chest in the most important manner; “and now I’m going to sthroll down to the town for an airin’, Mrs. O’Doolahan.”

“A pleasant walk to ye this foine summer’s marning, sir,” said Mrs. O’Doolahan, dropping him a courtesy; and then Barney walked off with a stately step toward the village, looking back at every few steps to glance with pride at the neat cottage, surrounded with many well-cultivated acres, which were all his own.

And this was the same Barney Shea who had roamed over the prairies of Western America, killing Indians and robbers, and reveling in rows and ructions.

He had come to this township of Clonakilty with a few thousands of dollars in shining gold, had purchased a house and land to the surprise of his envious neighbors, had been dubbed “Esquire,” in honor of his wealth, and was now living the quiet life of an Irish gentleman.

But he was growing tired of it.

It was very nice to be called “Squire” and receive the respectful homage of all the peasantry and the friendly hand of other squires—men whom he used to look up to in days gone by; but it wasn’t equal to a smashing, rip-tearing rumpus with a cut-throat band of murderous redskins and black-hearted white men.

He was growing rusty and out of practice for the want of use; and, as he thought as much of fighting as a woman does of eating, this humdrum life was not well calculated to suit him.

He walked leisurely into the town, and was saluted on all sides with respect.

When he entered the post-office several voices saluted him:

“The top o’ the marnin’ to ye, Squire Shea.”

“Long life to ye, Squire Shea.”

“And there’s a letther for ye, Esquire Barney Shea,” said the postmaster, handing out a yellow envelope. “It’s from Ameriky.”

“Oh, aye,” mumbled Barney, with a wise look on his mug; “wan a’ me furrin’ correspondents, you moind.”

And then he sat down on the chair and broke the seal of the letter, while around him sat the staring and gaping countrymen, anxious to hear something from the far off land, and looking up with great admiration and respect to the man who had a foreign correspondent.

And this is the letter that made Barney Shea’s eyes sparkle:

“Friend Barney:—How are you Squire Shea? How does your lordship feel? I have met with your cousin, Patrick McSpalten, and he has told me all about your being one of the biggest men in your parts, but he also said that you talked about paying a visit to this land some time, and that’s why I write to you.

“Barney, my rip-snorter, you remember what I said I’d do, don’t you? I said that if it could be done I’d make a horse that should go by steam, and now, old boy, I tell you that I’ve done it.

“I’ve built my horse, and every part is perfect, and there’s no reason why I can’t go whistling over the plains like some rocket on a tear. Oh! what fun I’m going to have with the reds. You bet I’ll wake ’em up at the liveliest rate.

“Now Barney, I want you to come out here to my house in New York, and start with me for the West. My horse is all finished, and, by the time that you get here, I shall have the wagon ready to harness on the animal. Charley Gorse and his Steam Man will travel over the plains with us when we reach the West, and you can have full scope for your fighting tendencies among the reds and the rascally whites. Come out, if only to take a ride behind my Steam Horse, and I’ll promise to raise more rough and tumble rumpusses in one week on the plains than you’ll have in Ireland in a year.

“Ever your friend,

“Frank Reade.”

“Tare an’ ouns,” cried Barney, when he read the letter through, by dint of much study and patient spelling, “did yez iver hear the loikes o’ that now?”

And then, observing that they were all looking at him with surprise, he turned to them, and said:

“Whist, me lads; ye moind that powerful young jaynus I was talking about so often to yez?”

“The gossoon wid the mon that wint be sthame?” asked one.

“That same,” said Barney.

“We moind the lad,” they said.

“Thin moind this,” said Barney. “The young jaynus has been afther invintin’ a harse that goes be sthame.”

“A harse?”

“Do yez mane a rale horse, squire?”

“Musha, my Lord, are ye joking, squire?”

“Be the goat of St. Kevin’s cavern that’s the bate of all.”

And they held up their hands in the greatest wonder.

“I mane it,” said Barney. “It’s a harse, and av coorse it must be constructed of iron or sthale.”

“An’ goes be sthame?”

“It will that same,” said Barney. “Oh, I must go to Ameriky to take a jaunt at this wondherful Sthame Harse. Look ye, Michael McGarrahan.”

“Yis, Squire Shea,” said a young man, stepping forward with his hat between his fingers.

“I moind that ye’re a loikely soort o’ lad, Michael.”

“Yis, squire; thank ye, squire.”

“And be the same token that nate little colleen—what’s her name?”

“Kathleen O’Shaugnessy, yer honor,” said Michael; “that’s the wan yer honor must mane.”

“Aye, Kathleen smiles on ye, but ye’re too poor to go togither to the praste.”

“Yis, squire.”

“Thin I give yez both a foine chance to rise in the worruld, for I know that ye’re an honest couple and’ll not rob me whin I’m away. I’m going to lave Clonakilty.”

“Oh, squire.”

“Don’t go.”

“Musha, my God, phat’ll we do widout our pratees?”

“And the pigs at Michaelmas?”

“And the grain for me harse whin me feed runs out?”

“And the two chickens for coc’s-broth whin me wife’s sick?”

“Oh, Squire Shea, don’t yez go.”

And they all crowded around the good-hearted Barney.

He had stood between them and poverty a great many times since he became a squire, and they were not anxious to have him depart from them.

“Be aisy, boys, be aisy,” said Barney. “I’ll lave full instruction wid me agent here, Michael McGarrahan, to give aich of ye whatever I’ve given yez afore, so ye’ll not lose by me lavin yez. Michael shall marry his nate colleen, an’ take charge of me house and land; and I’ll be off to Ameriky with the first ship that laves afther Michael gits married, for I’ll sthay to dance at his weddin’, and thin I’ll be off. Now I must go home and write a letther to the jaynus, tellin’ the lad to look for me soon. Good-day.”

“Good-day, Squire Shea,” cried they all, and away walked Barney, with his head thrown back.

And then he sent the following letter to our hero:

“Frank, me brave gossoon:—It’s delighted wid ye intirely, I am. A Sthame Horse, you wondherful little divil, ye? Oh, ye’re a rale jaynus, and ye’ll make yer mark, as I tould Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan (she’s me housekeeper, do ye moind), and she allowed ye war a brave gossoon to invent such a conthrivance, and she not able to keep the sow and her nine small sows and pigs out o’ me schmokin’ room half the time; but of coorse I’ll come over and ride out west wid ye behind yer Sthame Horse, as I tould Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan, me housekeeper—bad luck to me, I tould ye that before, but the sow and litter jist hopped across the flure between me legs, and I want ye to moind that I’m ready and spoilin’ for a rale knock ’em down an’ pick ’em up shindy wid the—there’s the sow an’ the pigs agen, and they’ve upset me birdseye terbaccy, and I’ll thravel all round wid ye over the land, and I want to see Charley Goorse, and—there goes my pipe in the little pig’s mouth—so look for me on the first ship afther Michael McGarrahan gits married to Kathleen O’Shaugnessy, and I’m going to tell Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan to kape the pigs away, or I’ll stick the troublesome divils between the ribs, and I’m yer sincere friend, that be wid yer soon, to ride wid the Sthame Harse.

“Barney Shea.”