“Quite,” said Mr Fanshawe. He unbuckled the straps of the harness, freed the broken shafts, and got Fly-by-night on her feet with Patsy’s help. “Patsy,” said Mr Fanshawe, “isn’t there any place round here we could get a cart?” “Nowhere, sir,” said Patsy; “the nearest farm is five mile away, and the only cart you could get there is a hay-cart.” Mr Fanshawe climbed on the bank. There was not a habitation to be seen anywhere, fields, fields, and nothing but fields, waste lands, clumps of trees. The high-road to Castle Knock looked like a twisted white ribbon. There was not even a breath of wind, not a sound under the silent moon. He could hear the watch in his pocket ticking. He took it out, it pointed to five minutes to three. “How far is it to Tullagh, Patsy?” he asked. “Seven miles and more,” replied Patsy in a heart-broken voice. “We’re done,” said Mr Fanshawe. “Look, sir,” said Patsy. He was pointing in the direction of Tullagh. Down the road, towards them, was coming a reeling object, which, in the moonlight, looked now like a dromedary, now like a giant. “What on earth is it?” cried Miss Lestrange. “Begob, I don’t know, miss,” replied Patsy, “but whatever it is, it’s drunk.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXXIX A MAN OF RESOURCE That night Mr Murphy and his steed had been carousing in the cabin of Billy the Rafter, a gentleman of no occupation, who lived by the main road half-way between Castle Knock and Tullagh. Mr Murphy, Con and Billy had been playing “Spoil Five” with an old greasy pack of cards, talking politics, and drinking whisky. The events of the day before had placed Mr Murphy securely and forever on the pedestal of public admiration. The sight of Billy Croom starting valiantly in pursuit of him followed by the sight of Billy Croom after the encounter, stripped of everything but his breeches and boots and going home in a sack, had left an undying impression on the public mind. The reduction of Con Cogan to a beast of burthen had completed the business. The whole affair had an artistic completeness, more especially when viewed by a people possessed at once of a sense of humour and an abhorrence of law. So there had been whisky galore for Mr Murphy, and cheers—a compound not unpleasant, but apt to be unsettling to the mind. It was long after two in the morning when the card-party broke up, and Mr Murphy, rising rather unsteadily to his feet, prepared to return to his arboreal home. “It’s a fine night,” said Billy the Rafter, as he accompanied his visitors to the door; “faith, you could see to rade print be the light of the moon. Keep your eye out for the police, Paddy, for they do be sayin’ wind of it all has got over to Shepherd’s Cross.”