It was all very wrong, of course; but there it was. There was not an ounce of sympathy for Paddy Murphy, but a lot for his condition. Prison to all these minds was as bad as death, and they helped him, just as they would have helped him had he been drowning in the pond. Whilst helping they jeered at him and joked with him, knowing well enough that he would never after take revenge for these jeers with the remembrance of their silence in his mind. “There’s no signs of the polis yet, is there, Micky Strachan?” asked Paddy, as he filed away. “Not a speck,” replied the individual addressed; “they’re all beyant at Shepherd’s Cross.” “Take your teeth to it, Paddy,” suggested an individual over Micky Strachan’s shoulder. “Make room for me, and don’t be blockin’ the winda!” cried another. “Here, Mr Mahony, hould up Billy to have a look.” “Oh, musha! musha! will yiz look at him?—he’s got wan bar out, and the other’s near gone.” “Stick your back end through, Paddy, and we’ll pull yiz.” “Put wan ear through at a time.” “Arrah! lave the man be, and don’t be jestin’ at him.” To all these advisers, jesters and sympathisers Mr Murphy replied in kind; for he had a tongue like a rapier, and a wit that was pungent, and—the pity of it—nine times out of ten unprintable. As he replied to the jesters and the jeerers and the sympathisers, he filed away for hard life, yet as unflurriedly and methodically as a locksmith on a time job. Then, suddenly, having gauged to a nicety the extent of his work, he dropped his file, seized the bar, and the crowd cleared before the window as they would have cleared before the cage of an escaping tiger. For one moment of ferocious energy he wrestled with it, the veins on his forehead swelling, his knuckles white as marble, his teeth exposed, and his eyes tight shut—a terrific spectacle—then snap, bang! the thing gave, and he tumbled backwards into the room. “Paddy’s out!” yelled the crowd with delightful inconsequence, scattering devious as though from the path of a python. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXXII THE FOX TAKES EARTH Meanwhile at the front of the house things had been happening. Larry and a subordinate stable helper had brought round Mr Fanshawe’s horse, and the horses for General Grampound and Miss Lestrange. “I must speak to you alone,” said Dicky, as he helped the girl into her saddle—“not a word here.—Row? You saw us at breakfast—he has sworn not to speak to me again—it’s over that business last night. Hush, here he is.” He swung into his own saddle as his uncle came down the steps, and mounted the elephantine grey which Larry Lyburn was holding for him. It was at this moment that a ragged individual, of the type which is all eyes for disaster, and all ears for bad news, and all tongue for telling it, yelled out: