Thus challenged by Denis Malone, in a ringing brogue, an elderly dwarf, who had been shuffling along a boreen, halted and looked sharply about him. It was at the close of a dull afternoon; there was more than a hint of frost in the air, and over the marshy lands, at either side of the lane, a thin white mist was rising. To the left, Denis and his step-brother, with guns on their shoulders, were struggling across a bit of bog--towards where Joey stood awaiting them. Joey is possibly fifty years of age, and not more than four feet in height. He has a long body, and very short legs; nevertheless, he wears the clothes of a full-grown man; his frieze coat almost sweeps the ground; his waistcoat reaches half way to his boots, and his trousers are doubled back to his knees, and there pinned; long, reddish elf locks fall over his collar, and his little grey eyes look out somewhat vacantly from a pent-house of bushy red brows. However, if not very bright--although Joey’s enemies declare that he is more of a knave than a fool--at any rate he has wit enough for his business; he is messenger and postman to the neighbourhood, and wears a leather bag, slung over his shoulder, as an insignia of his profession. In one hand he carries a stout blackthorn, and in the other a plump woodcock. A minute later, George Holroyd was within easy hail, coming over the wet tussocks with long strides; these long strides suddenly increased to a rapid run, for a deep, wet gripe, with treacherous sides of thick, withered grass, lay between him and Joey. “You’ll never do it, Captain darlin’,” screamed the dwarf, raising his stick. “It’s eighteen foot if it’s----” Before another word left his lips, “Captain darlin’” stood in the boreen beside him. “Oh, begorra thin, well lepped! You’re as souple as Pat Kearney’s heifer; he can’t keep her out of the potato garden, at no price. Is she loaded, Captain?” pointing to the gun. (N.B., the Irish peasant believes every young officer to be a captain at the very least.) “To be sure, she is.” “An’ supposin’ she went off and shot me?” “No fear of that, Joey,” remarked Denis, who had joined them. “A mannikin like you would be as hard to hit as a jack snipe, and they are the very devil. We saw nothing else to-day.” “Well, well; so ye had poor sport, had ye? It’s a bad day for fowling; what ails the red terrier, Crab?” “I peppered him with No. 9 shot, and I want you to carry him home.” “Is it Crab?” he returned, in a tone of peevish incredulity. “Faix, Mr. Denis, a lighter job would answer me better! I’m sorry you did not shoot him all out, when ye went about it! I’ve a print of his teeth in the calf of me leg yet. Look at him now, rowling the white of his eye on me, bad cess to him.” “Well, then, carry my gun; that won’t bite you.” “Be gor! I would not touch a shootin’ iron for the Pope himself--may be she’d go off in spite of me.”