“What good are you, then?” exclaimed Denis, angrily. “Afraid of a dog; afraid of a gun; I’ll go bail you would not be so nervous if you were asked to carry a quart bottle of whisky.” “Begorra, yer honour, ye have only to _thry_ me! I’ve just been over at Mr. Blake’s. Now there’s a man for ye! He called me in, and gave me a glass of spirits strong enough to take the paint off a hall door. Be gor,” his little eyes glistening at the recollection, “to this minute itself, I’m aware of a torch-light procession going down me throat.” “And what have you got there?” continued Denis imperiously. “Oh, a terrible fine young woodcock Mr. Blake is sending Mrs. Redmond.” “Show it here.” Joey tendered it proudly. “It’s a fine, heavy bird,” said Denis, balancing it critically on the palm of his hand. “And it’s a mortal sin to give it to an old woman that does not know goose from grouse. Where was it shot?” “By Bresna Wood, I’m thinking--they are in now, but it’s over early to be shooting them yet.” Meanwhile Denis, with the skill of a conjurer, had thrust his hand into his lean game-bag, and dexterously substituted the noble woodcock for a miserable jack snipe, which, as all the world knows, strongly resembles the former in everything but size. “Well, Joey, here you are!” handing him the snipe with imperturbable countenance. “What!” screamed Joey, surveying it with open-mouthed horror. “What devil’s trick are you up to now, Mr. Denis? Arrah!” snatching at it passionately. “Give it back to me here, before you make a _wran_ of it.” It was evident that Joey believed that Denis had wrought a spell on the bird, and might possibly develop it so far as to reduce the woodcock to nothing at all. “What’s come over it?” he whimpered, turning it about in great perplexity. “What have ye done to it, at all, at all? Ye ought to be ashamed of yourself, so ye ought; it’s not the weight of a robin red-breast.” “Then give it to me again, and I’ll blow on it, and make it the size of a cock turkey.” “In troth, and I won’t. I know yer _too_ well. Here our roads part,” opening a gate that led towards Noone, “and I’ll be for wishing ye good evening, gentlemen; _gentleman_, I mane,” he muttered to himself as he shambled off, with the jack in his hand. “Sure all the world knows there’s only _wan_ in it.” Denis put down Crab; leant his gun against the gate, and gave vent to a loud ironical view halloo. “Gone away--gone away--gone away!” An unpleasant reference to Joey’s nickname which Joey deeply resented. He turned back for a moment and shook his stick furiously at Denis, saying: “Never fear, me fine fellow, but I’ll have it in for ye _yet_,” and then plodded on. “How that chap does hate me!” remarked Denis complacently, as he shouldered his gun. “I’d like to wring his neck. He is the spy and informer of the whole country.”