“P’leece!” said Mr Murphy with fine contempt, producing the horse pistol and inspecting the cap on it. “Who’s you talkin’ to? Now thin, Con—Billy give me a leg up, for the whisky’s got under me.” Con, obedient to the superior will, as a donkey turned his back; Billy the Rafter gave the required leg up, and Mr Murphy mounted. “’Night to you, Billy,” cried the mounted one. “Jay up. Put your best fut foremost, for it’s home I ought to have been an hour ago.” “Let up wid thim spurs,” grumbled Con, as he took the high-road; “aisy wid that whip, don’t be moidherin’ me, or it’s into the ditch we’ll be; for it’s a double load I’m carryin’ wid you on me back and the whisky aboard.” “Faith,” confessed Mr Murphy, “it’s two moons I’m seein’ meself, and the road looks twishtin’ like a corkscrew. Musha, but it’s a glurious night; it calls to me mind the ould days whin I wint courtin’. Jay up, y’ divil, an’ keep the road.” “Hould on,” said Con, who had better eyes in his head than his rider. “What’s that foreninst us on the road?” Mr Murphy, shutting one eye, made out a black mass on the road ahead of them. “It’s a cart broke down,” said he; “where there’s a smash-up there’s always pickin’s. Jay up—we’ll lind them our ’sistance.” It was the dogcart—a horrible ruin, one wheel off and shafts broken. Patsy holding Fly-by-night (name of satire) by the bridle, Miss Lestrange seated, like a young and beautiful Niobe, in a mole-skin cloak, on the hedge bank, and Dicky Fanshawe trying to console her. “Hulloo, hulloo,” cried Mr Murphy, as he trotted up, “what’s the truble wid ye? Why, glory be to God, it’s Mr Fanshawe!” “It’s Murphy!” cried Dicky Fanshawe, a feeling of hope springing up in his breast, for, whatever else the ruffian might be, he was a man of resource, and if there was such a thing as gratitude in the whole wide world, a friend. Mr Murphy, from his point of vantage, gazed with a grin at the smashed cart, the weeping girl, the distracted Mr Fanshawe, and Patsy. Then touching Con with a spur he rode round the ruined vehicle and inspected it. Miss Lestrange noticed with an obfusc sort of horror that Con obeyed voice and spur just like a horse. The whole thing felt like a terrible and fantastic nightmare. “There’s no time to lose!” cried Dicky, when Mr Murphy had made his inspection. “The thing is smashed beyond mending. Murphy, for heaven’s sake, do you know of a horse and trap anywhere near? I must get to Tullagh by four to catch the mail to Dublin. See here, we are running away, this young lady and I——” “There’s not a horse and cart nearer than four miles,” said Murphy; “is there, Con?” “Divil a wan,” replied the steed. “Good Lord!” cried Dicky, “and we’re being chased. The General is after us in the carriage—you remember the old gentleman with the red face?” “He’s afther you, is he, in a carriage?” said Mr Murphy. “He is—he’ll be here any minute.” “Con,” cried Mr Murphy, “set me down.”