A lately arrived post-chaise, with an old, stiff-looking gentleman in a queue, had formed a kind of 'godsend' for debate, as to who he was, whither he was going, whether he really had intended to spend the night there, or that he only put up because the chaise was broken; each, as was customary, maintaining his own opinion with an obstinacy we have often since laughed at, though, at the time, we had few mirthful thoughts about the matter.
"As the debate waxed warm, O'Reilly asserted that he positively knew the individual in question to be a United Irishman, travelling with instructions from the French government; while I laughed him to scorn by swearing that he was the rector of Tyrrell's Pass, that I knew him well, and, moreover, that he was the worst preacher in Ireland.

Singular enough it was that all this while the disputed identity was himself standing coolly at the inn window, with his snuff-box in his hand, leisurely surveying us as we sat, appearing, at least, to take a very lively interest in our debate.
"'Come, now,' said O'Reilly, 'there's only one way to conclude this, and make you pay for your obstinacy.

What will you bet that he's the rector of Tyrrell's Pass ?' "'What odds will you take that he's Wolfe Tone ?' inquired I, sneeringly.
"'Five to one against the rector,' said he, exultingly.
"'An elephant's molar to a toothpick against Wolfe Tone,' cried I.
"'Ten pounds even that I'm nearer the mark than you,' said Tom, with a smash of his fist upon the table.
"'Done,' said I,--'done.

But how are we to decide the wager ?' "'That's soon done,' said he.

At the same instant he sprang to his legs and called out: 'Pat, I say, Pat, I want you to present my respects to--' "'No, no, I bar that; no _ex parte_ statements.