“To be sure I do; and troth you can’t know much of the west, av ye don’t know the three Mr. Trenches of Tallybash!--them’s they.” “You don’t say so?” “Faix, but I do.” “May I never drink the 12th of July if I didn’t think they were priests.” “Priests!” said Mickey, in a roar of laughter,--“priests!” “Just priests!” “Be-gorra, though, ye had better keep that to yourself; for they’re not the men to have that same said to them.” “Of course I wouldn’t offend them,” said Mr. Crow; “faith, it’s not me would cast reflections upon such real out-and-outers as they are. And where are they going now?” “To Dublin straight; there’s to be a grand lodge next week. But sure Mr. Crow knows better than me.” Billy after this became silent. A moody revery seemed to steal over him; and he was evidently displeased with himself for his want of tact in not discovering the three Mr. Trenches of Tallybash, though he only caught sight of their backs. Mickey Free interrupted not the frame of mind in which he saw conviction was slowly working its way, but by gently humming in an undertone the loyal melody of “Croppies Lie Down,” fanned the flame he had so dexterously kindled. At length they reached the small town of Kinnegad. While the coach changed horses, Mr. Crow lost not a moment in descending from the top, and rushing into the little inn, disappeared for a few moments. When he again issued forth, he carried a smoking tumbler of whiskey punch, which he continued to stir with a spoon. As he approached the coach-door he tapped gently with his knuckles; upon which the reverend prelate of Maronia, or Mesopotamia, I forget which, inquired what he wanted. “I ask your pardon, gentlemen,” said Billy, “but I thought I’d make bold to ask you to take something warm this cold day.” “Many thanks, my good friend; but we never do,” said a bland voice from within. “I understand,” said Billy, with a sly wink; “but there are circumstances now and then,--and one might for the honor of the cause, you know. Just put it to your lips, won’t you?” “Excuse me,” said a very rosy-cheeked little prelate, “but nothing stronger than water--” “Botheration,” thought Billy, as he regarded the speaker’s nose. “But I thought,” said he, aloud, “that you would not refuse this.” Here he made a peculiar manifestation in the air, which, whatever respect and reverence it might carry to the honest brethren of 13,476, seemed only to increase the wonder and astonishment of the bishops. “What does he mean?” said one. “Is he mad?” said another. “Tear and ages,” said Mr. Crow, getting quite impatient at the slowness of his friends’ perception,--“tear and ages, I’m one of yourselves.” “One of us,” said the three in chorus,--“one of us?” “Ay, to be sure,” here he took a long pull at the punch,--“to be sure I am; here’s ‘No surrender,’ your souls! whoop--” a loud yell accompanying the toast as he drank it. “Do you mean to insult us?” said Father P------. “Guard, take the fellow.”