“It’s a question of honour,” said Mr Fanshawe. “I don’t know why I should fight this scoundrel’s battles, but he has placed himself under my protection, and I’m not going to give him up.” Then, in a lower voice: “You wouldn’t have it otherwise?” “No,” said Violet, shivering; “but tell me before you begin, and I’ll shut my eyes, and—stop my ears.” “Misther Fanshawe.” The voice came from above. Dicky looked up. Mr Murphy had scrambled up, and was leaning over the tree-top rim. “Misther Fanshawe, there’s no call for fightin’. I’ll come down and settle me account peaceful wid Billy Croom. I’ll go wid him quiet, for I’m sure to be cocht _any_how, and he may as well have the hundred pound as another. Aisy, now, Mr Fanshawe, and listen to me. I’ll go wid Billy on one condijion.” “What’s that?” asked Mr Fanshawe, glad to be done with the business. “That you take hould of Con Cogan’s arm over there, and hould him till I ax you to loose him, for I’m powerful anxious to say a word to him before I goes to prizon.” “Right!” said Dicky, stepping over to where Con stood and taking hold of his arm. “I ax you, sir,” said Mr Murphy, “not to loose him till I say when.” “Right!” said Mr Fanshawe. “Now,” said Mr Murphy, whipping a frightful-looking old horse pistol into view and levelling it at the head of Billy Croom, who stood right at the bottom of the tree, “now that all’s settled. I’m going to have a word wid me friend, Billy. Move the hundredth part of an inch, y’ widge-faced houn’, and your brains go on the grass. Misther Fanshawe, will yiz ax the young lady to go away beyant and shut her eyes and ears?” “Go quick!” cried Dicky, and he had not to repeat his words. “Hi, you scoundrel, stop it! You’re not going to shoot the man.” “Mr Fanshawe,” went on the man in possession of affairs, “you’ve give your word—this is betune Billy and me, man to man. Billy Croom, have I thrumped your ace, or have I not?” Billy was a very brave man, but he knew the infernal devil in the tree, and his utter recklessness when moved by whisky or rage. “You have,” said Billy. “You came afther me for gowld, and I’m goin’ to give yiz lead,” said Mr Murphy, “if yiz as much as blinks wan eye before I lays down me conditions of war. They’ll be hard, Billy Croom, but, begob! they’ll be better than hell.” Dicky, holding Con by the sleeve, looked on fascinated. Intuition told him that Murphy would kill the man under him, if the man under him moved so much as a finger, for there was that in Murphy’s face which was beyond the earth. “What’s you afther?” asked Croom, whose breath was coming hard. “Strip!” said the other—“all but your britches and brogues; I’ll lave you those for dacency sake.” “I’ll be——if I do!” said Croom. “I’ve said it wanst, I’ll say it twice, and if I say it three times, I’ll _shut_—strip!” Croom stripped. “Shut your eyes,” cried Dicky, and a voice came from the wood: “They’re shut.”