“There are two excellent motives for putting you in crib,” said the jailer; “but if you can prove that you have been confined to your bed so long as you say, why it will be all the better for yourself. Go with the turnkey.” “No, tarenation to the fut I'll go,” said Phelim, “till I'm carried.” “Doesn't the gintleman identify you, you villain,” replied one of the turnkeys; “an' isn't the Square's letther in your favor?” “Villain, is id!” exclaimed Phelim. “An' from a hangman's cousin, too, we're to bear this!--eh? Take that, anyhow, an' maybe you'll get more when you don't expect it. Whoo! Success, Phelim! There's blood in you still, abouchal!” He accompanied the words by a spring of triumph from the ground, and surveyed the already senseless turnkey with exultation. In a moment, however, he was secured, for the purpose of being put into strong irons. “To the devil's warmin' pan wid ye all,” he continued, “you may do your worst. I defy you. Ha! by the heavens above me, you'll suffer for this, my fine gintleman. What can ye do but hang or thransport me, you villains? I tell ye, if a man's sowl had a crust of sin on it a foot thick, the best way to get it off 'ud be jist to shoot a dozen like you. Sin! Oh, the divil saize the sin at all in it. But wait! Did ye ever hear of a man they call Dan O'Connell? Be my sowl, he'll make yez rub your heels together, for keepin' an innocent boy in jail, that there's no law or no warrant out for. This is the way we're thrated by thim that's ridin' rough shod over us. But have a taste o' patience, ye scoundrels! It won't last, I can tell yez. Our day will soon come, an' thin I'd recommend yez to thravel for your health. Hell saize the day's pace or happiness ever will be seen in the country, till laws, an' judges, an' Jries, an' jails, an' jailers, an' turnkeys, an' hangmen is all swep out of it. Saize the day. An' along wid them goes the parsons, procthors, tithes an' taxes, all to the devil together. That day's not very far off, d----d villains! An' now I tell ye, that if a hair o' my head's touched--ay, if I was hanged to-morrow--I'd lave them behind me that 'ud put a bullet, wid the help an' blessin' O Grod, through any one that'll injure me! So lay that to your conscience, an' do your best. Be the crass, O'Connell I'll make you look nine ways at wanst for this! He's the boy can put the pin in your noses! He's the boy can make yez thrimble, one an' all o' yez--like a dog in a wet sack! An', wid the blessin' o' God, he'll help us to put our feet on your necks afore long!” “That's a prudent speech,” observed the jailer; “it will serve you very much.” Phelim consigned him to a very warm settlement in reply. “Bring the ruffian off” added the jailer; “put him in solitary confinement.” “Put me wid Foodie Flattery,” said Phelim; “you've got him here, an' I'll go nowhere else. Faith, you'll suffer for givin' me false imprisonment. Doesn't O'Connell's name make you shake? Put me wid Foodie Flattery, I say.”