“Why, gintlemen--ha, ha!--be gorra, I'd take it as a convanience--I mane, as a favor--if you'd believe me that there's a small taste of mistake here. I was sent by Square S. wid a letter to Mr. S-----t, an' he gave me fifty ordhers to bring him back an answer this day. As for Phelim O'Toole, if you mane the rascal that swears the alibis, faith, I can't deny but I'm as like him, the villain, as one egg is to another. Bad luck to his 'dhroop,' any how; little I thought that it would ever bring me into throuble--ha, ha, ha! Mr. S------t, what answer have you for the Square, sir? Bedad, I'm afeard I'll be late.” “That letter, Master Maguire, or Toole, or whatever your name is, authorizes me to detain you as a prisoner, until I hear further from Mr. S.” “I identify him distinctly,” said the gentleman, once more. “I neither doubt nor waver on the subject; so you will do right to detain him. I shall lodge information against him immediately.” “Sir,” said Phelim to the jailer, “the Square couldn't mane me at all, in regard that it was another person he gave the letter to, for to bring to you, the other person gave it to me. I can make my oath of that. Be gorra, you're playin' your thrieks upon sthrangers now, I suppose.” “Why, you lying rascal,” said the jailer, “have you not a few minutes ago asserted to the contrary? Did you not tell me that your name was Arthur, or Art Maguire? That you are Mr. S.'s messenger, and expect to be made his groom. And now you deny all this.” “He's Phelim O'Toole,” said the turnkey, “I'll swear to him; but if you wait for a minute, I'll soon prove it.” He immediately retired to the cell of a convict, whom he knew to be from the townland of Teernarogarah: and ordering its inmate to look through the bars of his window, which commanded the yard, he asked him if there was any one among them whom he knew. The fellow in a few minutes replied, “Whethen, divil a one, barrin' bouncin' Phelim O'Toole.” The turnkey brought him down to the yard, where he immediately recognized Phelim as an old friend, shook hands with him, and addressed him by his name. “Bad luck to you,” said Phelim in Irish, “is this a place to welcome your friends to!” “There is some mystery here,” said the jailer. “I suppose the fact is, that this fellow returned a wrong name to Mr. S., and that that accounts for the name of Arthur Maguire being in the letter.” All Phelim's attempts to extricate himself were useless. He gave them the proper version of the letter affair with Fool Art, but without making the slightest impression. The jailer desired him to be locked up. “Divil fire you all, you villains!” exclaimed Phelim, “is it goin' to put me in crib ye are for no rason in life? Doesn't the whole parish know that I was never off o' my bed for the last three months, wid a complaint I had, until widin two or three days agone!”