“Are you wishful and willin’ to get through the window and open the door to us?” “No—yes—ow, let go of me arm!” shrieked the unfortunate Patsy, whose arm had received a sudden twitch from behind that nearly wrenched if from the socket. “Wishful and willin’?” reiterated Mr Murphy. “Yes!” cried Patsy. “Will yiz swear to do me biddin’?” “I will.” “Will yiz swear to be ready and waitin’ for us whenever we want you, which won’t be before this day week?” “I will.” “Now then, Con,” said Mr. Murphy, “give me that burning stick out of the fire till I brands him with the mark and makes a freemason of him, so’s the pain will larn him what he’ll get if he breaks his oath.” He was bending for the stick, when Patsy, who was now on his knees, mad with terror, made a frantic dash for liberty between Mr. Murphy’s legs. That gentleman put off his balance, made a grab at Con; Con’s foot slipped, and Con, Mr. Murphy, rabbit and all, went rolling into the ashes of the fire. When they had collected themselves and shaken the cinders out of their hair Patsy Rooney was gone. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VI THE HIRING OF PATSY Patsy ran and ran. He was so frightened that at first he did not know where he was running to, and when he came to his senses he was more than half-way to Castle Knock. Paddy Murphy had nearly scared him to death, and no wonder, for the road robber was the terror of the country-side. He had robbed the mails, he had broken into houses, and it was said, that in a fit of rage he had once roasted a live baby. That was, of course, nonsense, yet Patsy remembered it; and when he thought of the red-hot stick and the freemasonry business it made him run all the faster, so that when he arrived in Castle Knock he was out of breath and nearly spent. He found the letters waiting for him at the post-office and a great case of cartridges from Truelock & Harris, the gun-makers in Dublin. It was addressed to Mr Fanshawe, one of the guests expected for Christmas; and with the cartridges under one arm and the mail-bag with the letters slung over his back, he started across the park, keeping a bright look-out for fear of meeting his uncle. He crossed the park in safety, and came round by the back way through the stable-yard to the kitchen entrance of the Big House. As he came through the yard Bumble, the watch-dog, dashed out of his kennel and tried to “fetch” him. Bumble was a most extraordinary-looking dog. He was as big as a sheep, and his head was like a muff; to look at him you never could have imagined that his great-great-grandfather had been a greyhound, yet he had. His great-great-grandmother had been an old Irish wolf hound. His mother was a bob-tailed collie, and he had an uncle who was a Dandy Dinmont. He was a mongrel, in short.