It was a rude, but not uncomfortable hovel; cribs and sleeping-places occupying one end, and a fire of charred turf blazing in the other. In the centre stood a rough bench, on which were spread plates of the coarsest delft, an earthen greybeard containing undiluted whisky, a jug of water, and a couple of horn drinking cups; while a tallow candle, stuck in an iron trivet, lighted this uninviting board. Other objects, and of a very different description, met the eye. In a remote corner of the cabin a score of rusted firelocks were loosely piled; and, on the couples of the rafters, sundry fishing-rods and gaffs, a draft-net, and an eel-spear, were deposited. All indicated a lawless community and wild existence; while a forbidding-looking hag, broiling steaks upon the coals,--which operation a rough and brindled lurcher was contemplating with fixed attention,--completed a strange, but interesting picture of savage life. “Are you hungry?” inquired one of my abductors, with tolerable civility. “Not particularly,” I replied; “confinement in a sack does not generally improve the appetite.” “Were you hurt by the fall?” “Not much; although I fancy it would have been to you a matter of small consideration whether I broke my neck or scratched my finger.” “Why, then,” responded the second ruffian; “upon my soul, I should have regretted it; for, to give the devil his due, you took the brook and bridge in sporting style. She’s a sweet mare, that. There was a day I could have ridden her to fortune. I began life, sir, a whipper to Lord Longford.” “Then, friend, I must in candour tell you, that you have not changed for the better.” “I fear I have not”--and the fellow sighed heavily. “But, may I inquire, wherefore I am deprived of liberty, after having been waylaid, robbed, and nearly murdered?” The whipper shook his head, while his companion roughly desired me to ask no impertinent questions; then, pointing to the table, on which the hag had placed a quantity of broiled mutton--apparently sufficient for a dozen persons instead of three--he added, in a more encouraging tone, “Take a seat, neighbour; there are few in our trade would treat a gauger so civilly.” “What do you mean?” I exclaimed. “Fellow, _I am no gauger_.” “And pray what do you call yourself?” he added, with a smile. “An officer.” “Well, it’s all the same--a gauger and a revenue officer are brothers’ children.” “I am not in the revenue, but the army--I am a lieutenant in the Twenty-first Fusileers.” “The devil you are!” ejaculated the whipper, with marked surprise. “Pray, sir, are you not Mr. Parker?” “No, my name is O’Halloran.” “Of what family?” said the other ruffian. “The family of Kilcullen.” “Hell and furies!” exclaimed both together. “What is the meaning of all this? I fancy we are in the centre of a hobble. Are you, sir, son of Colonel O’Halloran?” “I am.” “How many arms has he?” asked the keeper, sharply. “But one--the left he lost in Holland.”