“Don’t start brayin’ too soon,” said Mr Murphy, “for it’s your wind you’ll be wantin’ before I’ve done with you—you dhirty houn’. Thank the Vargin it’s a dunkey I’ve made of you and not a corpse. Jay up.” Con jayed up. Round the oak he went at a trot and round again. The genius of Mr Murphy had unconsciously struck a vein of pure gold. Con was an exceedingly powerful man, but nearly all his strength lay in his legs. Like a certain English writer of comic verse, now dead, he had “thighs like a grasshopper’s.” Mr Murphy had discovered in a fit of caprice Con’s true function and office in life. “Jay up!” cried the rider. “That’s not bad, but trot more even.” “Let up wid them spurs, for the love of hiven, and I’ll trot as you want!” cried the steed. “Wo!” answered the rider. “What are yiz afther now?” said Con. “Nothin’,” replied the rider, who had taken the pistol from his breast, and was examining the cap on it, with the infernal grin on his face broadened, as though the weapon were a joke he was reading in the pages of a comic paper. What horrid thing was about to happen, who can say, when a brilliant thought passing through the brain of Mr Murphy, turned his grin into a whistle. He thrust the pistol back into his breast. “Set me down,” said he. Con did so with alacrity. “I was on the pint of blowin’ the roof off your head,” said Mr Murphy, “but, I’ve changed me decison; at least, I _b’lave_ I have. You trots well and you ain’t spavined: there’s on’y one pint I ain’t sure about—can yiz bray?” “Can I what?” “Bray like an ass,” replied the other, taking the pistol from his breast. “Put it back!” cried Con. “Sure, I’ll bray like a hundred asses, if yiz give me the word.” “Sthrike up, thin.” Con brayed. Mr Murphy put his pistol back. “That’s not so bad,” said he, “but it’s not parfect. Stick out your head, rowl up your lip, now—let fly.” The noise was repeated. “Faith, your voice has saved your life,” said Mr Murphy. “Turn your back.” In a second he had mounted pick-a-back again. “Now, aff we go!” cried Mr Murphy. “Jay up.” “Where to?” asked Con. “Castle Knock—where else?” “Sure, Paddy, you wouldn’t be ridin’ me into the town!” “Jay up.” “Sure, I’ll never be able to show me face in the county agin.” “Jay up.” The spurs struck home so hard that the steed nearly unseated his rider with the bound he gave. Then, at a trot, they started for Castle Knock. Mr Murphy knew his populace. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXXV INFLUENZA “Bob,” said Doris next morning, “Miss Lestrange has got the influenza.” “How do you know?” asked Bob. “I’ve been to her room, and she’s lying in bed crying. Bob!” “Well?” “It’s not the influenza.” “What are you driving at?” asked Bob. “Promise not to tell, and you’ll be in it too,” said Doris. “I promise—go ahead. What are you driving at?” “She’s going away.” “Where?”