Patsy ran and ran. He was so frightened that at first he did not know where he was running to, and when he came to his senses he was more than half-way to Castle Knock. Paddy Murphy had nearly scared him to death, and no wonder, for the road robber was the terror of the country-side. He had robbed the mails, he had broken into houses, and it was said, that in a fit of rage he had once roasted a live baby.

That was, of course, nonsense, yet Patsy remembered it; and when he thought of the red-hot stick and the freemasonry business it made him run all the faster, so that when he arrived in Castle Knock he was out of breath and nearly spent.

He found the letters waiting for him at the post-office and a great case of cartridges from Truelock & Harris, the gun-makers in Dublin. It was addressed to Mr Fanshawe, one of the guests expected for Christmas; and with the cartridges under one arm and the mail-bag with the letters slung over his back, he started across the park, keeping a bright look-out for fear of meeting his uncle.

He crossed the park in safety, and came round by the back way through the stable-yard to the kitchen entrance of the Big House. As he came through the yard Bumble, the watch-dog, dashed out of his kennel and tried to “fetch” him.

Bumble was a most extraordinary-looking dog. He was as big as a sheep, and his head was like a muff; to look at him you never could have imagined that his great-great-grandfather had been a greyhound, yet he had.

His great-great-grandmother had been an old Irish wolf hound. His mother was a bob-tailed collie, and he had an uncle who was a Dandy Dinmont. He was a mongrel, in short.

Patsy was not a bit afraid of Bumble, for the old dog had lost his teeth and was quite harmless, despite his ferocious appearance. He took his parcels round to the kitchen door and knocked; and whilst he stood waiting to be let in, he looked around him hoping to catch a sight of the children.

The children interested Patsy a lot. He had never spoken to them, but he had seen them at a distance in the park, driving in the governess-cart with their governess.

Once he had met them all quite close in the drive, and Selina had laughed and nodded to him in quite a friendly way; the other children smiled, but Miss Kiligrew frowned, and he heard her say:

“Selina, who is that dirty little boy you are nodding to? Remember that you are a lady.”

Patsy was remembering this incident when the kitchen door was flung open, and Mrs Kinsella, the great fat cook, herself appeared before him, with her sleeves rolled up to the elbow and her hands all covered with flour.

“Why, it’s Patsy Rooney!” she cried. “And it’s you I’ve been sending to look for, and here you are come of yourself.”

She led the way down a stone passage into a huge old-fashioned kitchen, where a number of kitchen-maids were at work polishing pots and pans.

“Them’s the letters,” said Patsy, laying the bag on the table, “and them’s is the ca’tridges for the gintleman that’s comin’. Don’t let them near the fire, or it’s blown to blazes you’ll be, and the house along with you.”

“Take them away,” said Mrs Kinsella; “I don’t want any such things in my nice clean kitchen. Put them in a bucket of water, Jane, and maybe they’ll be safe. Take up your letters, Patsy, and follow me, for her ladyship wants to see you.”

“To see me?” cried Patsy in alarm.

“Yourself, and no one else,” replied the cook.

“O Mrs Kinsella, what have I been doin’ at all, at all!” cried Patsy, so flurried out of his wits as not to be able to remember his sins. “Is it the thraps I’ve been settin’ in the wood?”

“You come along,” said Mrs Kinsella, who had washed her hands and rolled down her sleeves. “You come along, and you’ll soon see, only be sure, when she speaks to you, say ‘Yes, my lady,’ that’s all you need say; I’ll do the tellin’ and the talkin’. Wipe your boots on the mat here, and keep your mouth shut, and not hanging open like a rat-trap with a broken spring. Come here now till I brush your head, for you wouldn’t go before her ladyship with your hair standin’ up like the bristles on a broom.”

She brushed his hair with an old brush which one of the scullery maids fetched, and then she washed his face with soap, and rubbed it with a towel till it shone; Patsy, submitting without a word, for he was too terrified now to ask questions.

“Now come along,” said the cook, when she had made him fairly presentable. “And what are you to say when her ladyship speaks to you?”

“Yes, me lady,” replied Patsy promptly.

“That’s right, and don’t forget,” replied Mrs Kinsella; and, followed by Patsy, she left the kitchen.

Patsy, who had never been beyond the kitchen of the Big House before, followed his guide down a long stone passage, up a flight of steps, through a swing-door, then along a corridor from which they entered a great hall. Patsy had never seen anything like this, for the floor of the hall was of polished oak, shining like glass; a staircase, so broad that you might have driven a coach and horses up it, led from the hall to the first landing. Round the hall was a gallery, and under the gallery stood men in armour, looking very ghostly in the dim light.

They were only suits of armour, of course, but they were fixed so that it was impossible to tell whether there were men inside them or not.

“Mrs Kinsella, ma’am,” whispered Patsy.

“What is it, Patsy?” answered the cook.

“Let’s go back, for it’s afeared I am.”

“You come along,” answered the cook.

She knocked at a door, a voice answered “Come in”; she opened the door and, followed by Patsy, entered a pleasantly furnished room, where a stately-looking old lady sat by a great fire of holly logs which was blazing on the hearth.

This was Lady Seagrave herself, and Patsy looked at her with awe, for she was seventy-nine years of age, and as deaf as a post. People said she remembered the Battle of Waterloo, and some of the more ignorant country people said she had been at it. Patsy could almost have believed this as he stood looking at her, for she was a very fierce-looking old lady, with heavy eyebrows, a large nose, and bright, piercing eyes. She was beautifully dressed, and her fingers were covered with sparkling rings; she held an ear-trumpet to her ear.

“This is Patsy Rooney, your ladyship,” cried Mrs Kinsella through the trumpet. “I’ve washed him and brushed him to make him a bit respectable, for it’s wild in the woods he’s been runnin’ this last two years, ever since his mother died.”

“Oh, this is Patsy Rooney, is it?” said Lady Seagrave. “Hum! he looks wild enough still, but I daresay time and soap will work wonders. Is he honest, cook?”

“As honest a lad as your ladyship would find in the length and breadth of the land,” replied Mrs Kinsella.

“Have you explained to him that I wish him to enter my service in the capacity of page-boy?”

“No, your ladyship; I just cotched him and washed him and brought him up to you. His father is wishful and willin’ for him to enter your ladyship’s service.”

“That may be,” replied the old lady, “but I will have no one in my house a slave against their will. Let him advance and answer my questions personally.”

“Put your mouth to the trumpet, and when the old lady asks you a question say ‘Yes, my lady,’” whispered Mrs Kinsella.

Now Lady Seagrave was so old that she sometimes forgot things. She had quite forgotten Patsy’s name.

“What is your name?” asked her ladyship. “I have quite forgotten it. Speak up in a loud, clear voice, and don’t shuffle your feet. Now what is your name?”

“Yes, me lady,” replied Patsy. He had a mortal terror of the trumpet, he had never seen one before. He half imagined that she used it because she was so grand that it would be beneath her dignity to listen to people in the ordinary way.

“What did you say?” asked she.

Patsy imagined he had not spoken loud enough.

“Yes, me lady!” he shouted.

“What do you say?” cried her ladyship.

“Yes, me lady!” cried Patsy, nearly blubbering. “I don’t know which way to be answerin’ you, with her behint me tellin’ me to say one thing and me wantin’ to say another. Me name’s Patsy Rooney, and it’s wishin’ it’s at the divil I was!”

Fortunately Lady Seagrave could not catch the end of the sentence, but she made out the name.

“Patsy Rooney,” said she. “Well, we will call you Patsy for short. Are you a good boy, Patsy?”

“Yes, me lady,” replied he.

“And you would like to enter my service?”

“Yes, me lady.”

“Your father is alive and your mother is dead, I hear. I hope you have no evil companions in the village, for young boys left to their own resources, as you have no doubt been, often pick up most undesirable acquaintances.”

“No, me lady,” replied Patsy in a faltering voice, for he recalled to mind Con Cogan and Paddy Murphy and the promise he had made them to help them to get into the Big House and steal the jewellery of the “quality.” And here he was in the Big House, and going to be hired as page-boy—it seemed like fate.

“Do you smoke?” went on her ladyship.

“Now an’ again, mum—I mean, yes, me lady.”

“What!” cried Lady Seagrave. “Do you dare to tell me that a boy of your tender years indulges in that vile and pernicious habit?”

“Sure, it’s only the draw of a pipe I do be takin’ to aise me mind now and thin,” cried Patsy, “or when I’m out rabbitin’ in the woods alone, for they do say the whiff of a pipe keeps off the Good People.”

“The Good People?” said the old lady. “Who are they?”

“The fairies, mum—I mean, me lady.”

“Dear me,” said Lady Seagrave, “I thought no one believed in such rubbish as fairies nowadays. Well, Patsy Rooney, I will hire you for a month to see if you give satisfaction, and if you don’t you will receive a whipping and be turned away.”

“Leave him to me, your ladyship,” said Mrs Kinsella, as she led Patsy away. “I’ll answer for him giving satisfaction when I’ve belted the fairies and rubbish out of him with a strap.”