And Dangerfield, just before mounting, popped into Cleary's shop, and in his grim, laconic way, asked the proprietor, among his meal-bags and bacon, about fifty questions in less than five minutes.

'That was one of Lord Castlemallard's houses--eh--with the bad roof, and manure-heap round the corner ?'--and, 'Where's the pot-house they call the Salmon House ?--doing a good business--eh ?' and at last--'I'm told there's some trout in the stream.

Is there anyone in the town who knows the river, and could show me the fishing ?--Oh, the clerk! and what sort of fish is _he_--hey ?--Oh! an honest, worthy man, is he?
Very good, Sir.

Then, perhaps, Mr.a--perhaps, Sir, you'll do me the favour to let one of your people run down to his house, and say Mr.
Dangerfield, Lord Castlemallard's agent, who is staying, you know, at the Brass Castle, would be much obliged if he would bring his rod and tackle, and take a walk with him up the river, for a little angling, at ten o'clock!' Jolly Phil Cleary was deferential, and almost nervous in his presence.
The silver-haired, grim man, with his mysterious reputation for money, and that short decisive way of his, and sudden cynical chuckle, inspired a sort of awe, which made his wishes, where expressed with that intent, very generally obeyed; and, sure enough, Irons appeared, with his rod, at the appointed hour, and the interesting anglers--Piscator and his 'honest scholar,' as Isaac Walton hath it--set out side by side on their ramble, in the true fraternity of the gentle craft.
The clerk had, I'm afraid, a shrew of a wife--shrill, vehement, and fluent.

'Rogue,' 'old miser,' 'old sneak,' and a great many worse names, she called him.