“Faith, and I b’lave I am,” replied a voice. “Well, the coast’s clear,” replied Con, “so out you may come.” A scrambling noise came from the tree, and a close-cropped head appeared over the edge of the bole; the head was followed by a body, next instant a fat little man was standing on the turf beside Con and Patsy. He had a jolly red face and bright, twinkling eyes. It would be more correct to say that at first his face seemed jolly, for when you had been speaking to him a minute or so, the face of this little man seemed no longer humorous, but, somehow, dreadful. At first sight Con Cogan was a terrible-looking man, but when you had spoken to him for a while you did not feel in the least afraid of him. It was different with Paddy Murphy. Con took the rabbit out of his pocket and began to skin it, whilst Mr Murphy lit a fire with dry sticks and a tinder-box. All the time they talked, and Patsy stood by listening and shivering, for he knew that the little man was a road robber who had been sentenced to five years’ imprisonment only six months before, and who, as the whole country-side knew, had broken out of gaol and was in hiding from the police. “I think I can fix it up at the Big House,” said Con, as he skinned his rabbit. “Here’s me sister’s boy, Patsy Rooney, knows one of the servants. I’m thinkin’ if we shoved him in through the little scullery window he could open the door to us; there’s tons of silver spoons and forks to be had for the pickin’ up.” “Bother spoons and forks!” replied the little man; “who wants spoons and forks when they can put their hands on diamonds and jewels? Sure, isn’t there a party of lords and ladies coming over for Chris’mas, and what do lords and ladies wear but diamonds and jewels?” “But,” said Con, pausing with the skinned rabbit in his hand, “supposing they do wear diamonds and jewels, how are we to get them off them?” “Off them?” replied Mr Murphy. “Do you suppose they sleep in them? Why, every one of them undresses every night of their lives—not like you an’ me sleeping in this ould tree—and off they takes their jew’lery and puts them in boxes.” “I see,” said Con; “and you’d be after slippin’ into the house when they were all a-bed, and whippin’ off with the boxes.” “That’s my meaning,” replied Mr Murphy. “Hand me the rabbit till I stick him on the spit, for it’s hungry I am and I wants me breakfast.” He put the rabbit to roast by the fire he had built, and then he went on. “That’s my meaning; but to get into the house there’s only one way, and that’s to slip a gossoon through the little scullery window; and there’s only one gossoon of me acquaintance I’d trust with the job, and this is him.” He suddenly pounced on Patsy. “Now then, Patsy,” said he, “confess your sins before I makes a freemason of you. When did you say the quality was coming to the Big House?” “This day week,” replied Patsy; “and don’t be twistin’ me arm, it’s the truth I’m telling you.”