“Now, Misther Cogan,” said Paddy, when the last glimpse of Mr Fanshawe had vanished amidst the trees, “a word in your ear.”

“Paddy,” said Con Cogan, who was white to his lips, and licking them, “you may b’lave me or not, but it wasn’t I set Billy Croom on to yiz.”

“Who said you did?” asked Paddy. “Who said Con Cogan ever went back on a friend? Show me the man that siz it, and I’ll show you his liver on the pint of a stick.”

Con Cogan would have much preferred Paddy to have stormed at him. You see, he knew his man.

“And now that we’ve finished the parlymentaries,” said Mr Murphy, “we’ll get to bizness. Into the ould tree wid you, and fitch me the powther horn, the bu’lets and the waddin’, for I’m goin’ huntin’.”

“Paddy, sure, y’ ain’t goin’ to shut me?” asked Con. He looked sick, and no blame to him, for it is always an unpleasant question when one has to put it to another man.

“Shut you?” said Mr Murphy, with fine contempt, which Con felt to be a horrible simulation. “Shut you—what’s set you cockin’ yourself up wid the idea you was worth powther and shot? Into the tree wid yiz, and do me biddin’.”

Con, relieved not at all, climbed into the tree, and Mr Murphy turned his attention to the clothes left behind him by Billy Croom. He searched the pockets of the coat—found nothing in them; then, taking off his own coat, he put on Croom’s.

It didn’t fit. In fact, a seam of the shoulder frankly burst when Mr Murphy put his powerful triceps in action stooping down to pick up the old hunting cap which Billy, by the directions of the powers above, had discarded with the clothes.

With the cap on his head and the hunting-coat on his back, Mr Murphy made a figure sufficiently bizarre. There remained the whip, which he picked up, and the spurs, which he let lie.

“Here’s the powther and the balls,” said Con Cogan, lowering himself down from the tree. “Glory be to God, Paddy, what are yiz dressin’ yourself out in thim things for?”

“I’m goin’ huntin’,” said Mr Murphy, putting the powder and balls in the tail pocket of his coat. “Put me old coat into the tree and come back to me.”

Con did as he was bid.

“Now,” said Mr Murphy, pointing to the spurs, “kneel down wid you and put thim spurs on me boots.”

Con knelt down and proceeded to do as he was directed.

“What for are you puttin’ spurs on when you haven’t a horse?” asked Con, as he buckled the straps of the spurs.

“I haven’t a horse, but I have a dunkey.”

“Where is he?”

“I’ll show you him in a minit.”

Con, having fixed the spurs, stood up.

“Now,” said Mr Murphy, putting the pistol in the breast of his coat and clutching the whip in one hand, “turn your back to me.”

“Is it me brains you’re going to blow out?” asked the trembling Con, who, for all Paddy’s seemingly amiable mood, knew that something unpleasant was in store for him.

“Turn your back,” replied the other. “Sure, it’s a schollar of Thrinity one would think you were to-day with all your talk about brains. Turn your back.”

Con did as he was bidden, and the next moment Mr Murphy was on his back.

“Now you know where I keeps me dunkey,” said Mr Murphy, who had mounted pick-a-back. “Now you know why I put on me spurs. Jay up round the oak till I thries your paces—jay up.” He struck with his spurs, the rowels of which entered Con’s thighs, and backwards with his whip, the butt of which struck Con’s western extremity. Con shouted with the pain.

“Don’t start brayin’ too soon,” said Mr Murphy, “for it’s your wind you’ll be wantin’ before I’ve done with you—you dhirty houn’. Thank the Vargin it’s a dunkey I’ve made of you and not a corpse. Jay up.”

Con jayed up. Round the oak he went at a trot and round again.

The genius of Mr Murphy had unconsciously struck a vein of pure gold.

Con was an exceedingly powerful man, but nearly all his strength lay in his legs. Like a certain English writer of comic verse, now dead, he had “thighs like a grasshopper’s.”

Mr Murphy had discovered in a fit of caprice Con’s true function and office in life.

“Jay up!” cried the rider. “That’s not bad, but trot more even.”

“Let up wid them spurs, for the love of hiven, and I’ll trot as you want!” cried the steed.

“Wo!” answered the rider.

“What are yiz afther now?” said Con.

“Nothin’,” replied the rider, who had taken the pistol from his breast, and was examining the cap on it, with the infernal grin on his face broadened, as though the weapon were a joke he was reading in the pages of a comic paper.

What horrid thing was about to happen, who can say, when a brilliant thought passing through the brain of Mr Murphy, turned his grin into a whistle. He thrust the pistol back into his breast.

“Set me down,” said he.

Con did so with alacrity.

“I was on the pint of blowin’ the roof off your head,” said Mr Murphy, “but, I’ve changed me decison; at least, I b’lave I have. You trots well and you ain’t spavined: there’s on’y one pint I ain’t sure about—can yiz bray?”

“Can I what?”

“Bray like an ass,” replied the other, taking the pistol from his breast.

“Put it back!” cried Con. “Sure, I’ll bray like a hundred asses, if yiz give me the word.”

“Sthrike up, thin.”

Con brayed.

Mr Murphy put his pistol back.

“That’s not so bad,” said he, “but it’s not parfect. Stick out your head, rowl up your lip, now—let fly.”

The noise was repeated.

“Faith, your voice has saved your life,” said Mr Murphy. “Turn your back.” In a second he had mounted pick-a-back again.

“Now, aff we go!” cried Mr Murphy. “Jay up.”

“Where to?” asked Con.

“Castle Knock—where else?”

“Sure, Paddy, you wouldn’t be ridin’ me into the town!”

“Jay up.”

“Sure, I’ll never be able to show me face in the county agin.”

“Jay up.”

The spurs struck home so hard that the steed nearly unseated his rider with the bound he gave. Then, at a trot, they started for Castle Knock.

Mr Murphy knew his populace.