“Hallo!” exclaimed those who bore the candle, on looking at the bed, “who the devil and Jack Robinson have we got here? Aisy, boys--here's some blessed clip or other fast asleep: lay down poor Lanty on the ground till we see who this. Call Molly Cassidy; here, Molly, who the dickens is this chap asleep?”
“Troth I dunna who he is,” she replied; “he's some poor boy on his keepin', about tithes, tha' _He_ brought here to-night.”
“That's a cursed lie, Molly; wid' many respects to you, _He_ couldn't a' been here to-night.”
“Thank you, sir, whoever you are; but I tell you it's no lie; and he was here, and left that boy wid me, desirin' me to let him come to no injury, for that--” and this was an addition of her own, “there was hundreds offered for the takin' of him.”
“He whispered to me,” she replied, in a low voice, but loud enough for M'Carthy to hear, “that he shot a tithe-proctor.”
“We'll see what he's made of, though,” said one of them; “and, at all events, we'd act very shabbily if we didn't give him a share af what's goin'; but aisy, boys,” he added, “take care--ay! aisy, I say, safe's the word; who knows but he's a spy in disguise, and, in that case, we'll have a different card to play. Hallo! neighbor,” he exclaimed, giving M'Carthy a shove, who started up and looked about him with admirable tact.
“What--what--eh--what's this? who are you all? what are you about?” he asked, and as he spoke, he sprung to his feet. “What's this?” he exclaimed again. “Sweet Jasus! is this Fagan the tithe-proctor that I shot? eh--or are you--stay--no--ah, no--not the polis. Oh, Lord, but I'm relieved; I thought you were polis, but I see by your faces that I'm safe, at last--I hope so.”
“Ay, to be sure, you're safe--safe--as--as the bank (hiccup). You're a gintlemen, si--r you're a Con Roe--the ace o' hearts you are. Ay, you shot--like a ma--an, and didn't card--ard him wid tomcats, and then put the poo--oo--oor (hiccup) devil into a grave lined wid thorns; ah, you cowardly ould villain! the devil, in the shape of a to--to--tom-cat will card you in hell yet; an' moreover, you'll ne--never--ever die in your bed, you hard-hearted ould scut o' blazes; an' that you may not, I pray Ja--sa--sus this night--an' God forgive us all--amin, acheema!”