The last words only caught the ear of the frightened Furlong; and as the phrase "his life" seemed a personal threat to himself, he swore a trembling oath at the postilion that he would shoot him if he did not _dwive_ on, for he abjured the use of that rough letter, R, which the Irish so much rejoice in. "Dwive on, you wascal, dwive on!" exclaimed Mr. Furlong. "There's no fear o' you, sir," said Micky, "it's a friend o' my own." Mr. Furlong was not quite satisfied that he was therefore the safer. "And what is it at all, Andy?" continued Mick. "I tell you there's a man lying dead in the road here, and sure you'll kill him, if you dhrive over him." "How could I kill him any more than he _is_ kilt," says Mick, "if he's dead already?" "Well, no matther for that," says Andy. "'Light off your horse, will you, and help me to rise him?" Mick dismounted, and assisted Andy in lifting the prostrate man from the centre of the road to the slope of turf which bordered its side. They judged he was not dead, however, from the warmth of the body; but that he should still sleep seemed astonishing, considering the quantity of shaking and kicking they gave him. "I b'lieve it's drunk he is," said Mick. "He gave a grunt that time," said Andy; "shake him again, and he'll spake." To a fresh shaking the drunken man at last gave some tokens of returning consciousness, by making several winding blows at his benefactors, and uttering some half-intelligent maledictions. "Bad luck to you, do you know where you are?" said Mick. "Well!" was the drunken ejaculation. "By this and that, it's my brother Pether," said Mick. "We wondhered what had kept him so late with the return shay, and this is the way it is. He tumbled off his horses, dhrunk: and where's the shay, I wondher? Oh, murdher! what will Misther Doyle say?" "What's the weason you don't dwive on?" said Mr. Furlong, putting his head out of the chaise. "It's one on the road here, your honour, almost killed." "Was it wobbers?" asked Mr. Furlong. "Maybe you'd take him into the shay wid you, sir?" "What a wequest!--dwive on, sir!" "Sure I can't lave my brother on the road, sir." "_Your_ bwother!--and you pwesume to put your bwother to wide with me? You'll put me in the debdest wage if you don't dwive on." "'Faith, then, I won't dhrive on and lave my brother here on the road." "You rascally wappawee!" exclaimed Furlong. "See, Andy," said Micky Doolan; "will you get up and dhrive him, while I stay with Pether?" "To be sure I will," said Andy; "where is he goin'?" "To the Squire's," said Mick; "and when you lave him there, make haste back, and I'll dhrive Pether home." Andy mounted into Mick's saddle; and although the traveller "pwotested" against it, and threatened "pwoceedings" and "magistrates," Mick was unmoved in his brotherly love. As a last remonstrance, Furlong exclaimed, "And pewhaps this fellow can't wide, and don't know the woad."