"Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. Besides, didn't I tell you that I giv' him as good as he brought--and better! I jist touched him with my 'Evenin' Star,' as I call this shillelah," said the watchman, flourishing an immense bludgeon, the knob of which appeared to be loaded with lead, "and, by Saint Patrick! down he cum'd like a bullock." "Zounds!" exclaimed Quilt, "did you kill him?" "Not quite," replied Terence, laughing; "but I brought him to his senses." "By depriving him of 'em, eh! But I'm sorry you hurt his lordship, Terry. Young noblemen ought to be indulged in their frolics. If they _do_, now and then, run away with a knocker, paint a sign, beat the watch, or huff a magistrate, they _pay_ for their pastime, and that's sufficient. What more could any reasonable man--especially a watchman--desire? Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a particular friend of mine. There's not his peer among the peerage." "Och! if he's a friend o' yours, my dear joy, there's no more to be said; and right sorry am I, I struck him. But, bloodan'-'ouns! man, if ould Nick himself were to hit me a blow, I'd be afther givin' him another." "Well, well--wait awhile," returned Quilt; "his lordship won't forget you. He's as generous as he's frolicsome." As he spoke, the door of the round-house was opened, and a stout man, with a lantern in his hand, presented himself at the threshold. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. "Whist!" exclaimed Terence; "he elevates his glim. By Jasus! he's about to spake to us." "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner--ough! ough;--the Markis o' Slaughterford----" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. "No Mohocks! No Scourers!" cried the mob. "Hear! hear!" vociferated Quilt. "His lordship desires me to say--ough! ough!" Fresh groans and hisses. "Von't you hear me?--ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. "By all means," rejoined Quilt. "Raise your vice, and lave off coughin'," added Terence. "The long and the short o' the matter's this then," returned Sharples with dignity, "the Markis begs your acceptance o' ten guineas to drink his health." The hooting was instantaneously changed to cheers. "And his lordship, furthermore, requests me to state," proceeded Sharples, in a hoarse tone, "that he'll be responsible for the doctors' bill of all such gem'men as have received broken pates, or been other_wise_ damaged in the fray--ough! ough!" "Hurrah!" shouted the mob. "We're all damaged--we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices. "Ay, good luck to him! so we have," rejoined Terence; "but we've no objection to take out the dochter's bill in drink." "None whatever," replied the mob.