“And now that we’ve finished the parlymentaries,” said Mr Murphy, “we’ll get to bizness. Into the ould tree wid you, and fitch me the powther horn, the bu’lets and the waddin’, for I’m goin’ huntin’.” “Paddy, sure, y’ ain’t goin’ to shut me?” asked Con. He looked sick, and no blame to him, for it is always an unpleasant question when one has to put it to another man. “Shut you?” said Mr Murphy, with fine contempt, which Con felt to be a horrible simulation. “Shut _you_—what’s set you cockin’ yourself up wid the idea you was worth powther and shot? Into the tree wid yiz, and do me biddin’.” Con, relieved not at all, climbed into the tree, and Mr Murphy turned his attention to the clothes left behind him by Billy Croom. He searched the pockets of the coat—found nothing in them; then, taking off his own coat, he put on Croom’s. It didn’t fit. In fact, a seam of the shoulder frankly burst when Mr Murphy put his powerful triceps in action stooping down to pick up the old hunting cap which Billy, by the directions of the powers above, had discarded with the clothes. With the cap on his head and the hunting-coat on his back, Mr Murphy made a figure sufficiently bizarre. There remained the whip, which he picked up, and the spurs, which he let lie. “Here’s the powther and the balls,” said Con Cogan, lowering himself down from the tree. “Glory be to God, Paddy, what are yiz dressin’ yourself out in thim things for?” “I’m goin’ huntin’,” said Mr Murphy, putting the powder and balls in the tail pocket of his coat. “Put me old coat into the tree and come back to me.” Con did as he was bid. “Now,” said Mr Murphy, pointing to the spurs, “kneel down wid you and put thim spurs on me boots.” Con knelt down and proceeded to do as he was directed. “What for are you puttin’ spurs on when you haven’t a horse?” asked Con, as he buckled the straps of the spurs. “I haven’t a horse, but I have a dunkey.” “Where is he?” “I’ll show you him in a minit.” Con, having fixed the spurs, stood up. “Now,” said Mr Murphy, putting the pistol in the breast of his coat and clutching the whip in one hand, “turn your back to me.” “Is it me brains you’re going to blow out?” asked the trembling Con, who, for all Paddy’s seemingly amiable mood, knew that something unpleasant was in store for him. “Turn your back,” replied the other. “Sure, it’s a schollar of Thrinity one would think you were to-day with all your talk about brains. Turn your back.” Con did as he was bidden, and the next moment Mr Murphy was on his back. “Now you know where I keeps me dunkey,” said Mr Murphy, who had mounted pick-a-back. “Now you know why I put on me spurs. Jay up round the oak till I thries your paces—jay up.” He struck with his spurs, the rowels of which entered Con’s thighs, and backwards with his whip, the butt of which struck Con’s western extremity. Con shouted with the pain.