“Well, sir, your remarks this day, and what I’ve seen wid me own eyes of your demaynor, makes it plane that you’re a frind of Ireland. Now there’s just wan way in the worruld for a frind of Ireland to demonsthrate his affection--and that’s be enrollin’ himsilf among thim that’ll fight for her rights. Sir, I’ll thrust ye wid me sacret. I’m a Fenian.” The O’Mahony’s attentive face showed no light of comprehension. The word which Jerry had uttered with such mystery conveyed no meaning to him at all at first; then he vaguely recalled it as a sort of slang description of Irishmen in general, akin to “Mick” and “bogtrotter.” “Well, what of it?” he asked, wonderingly. Jerry’s quick perception sounded at once the depth of his ignorance. “The Fenians, sir,” he explained, “are a great and sacret society, wid tins of thousands of min enlisted here, an’ in Ameriky, an’ among the Irish in England, wid intint to rise up as wan man whin the time comes, an’ free Ireland. It’s a regular army, sir, that we’re raisin’, to conquer back our liberties, and dhrive the bloody Saxon foriver away from Erin’s green shores.” The O’Mahony let his puzzled gaze wander along the beetling coast-line of naked rocks. “So far’s I can see, they ain’t green,” he said; “they’re black and drab. An’ who’s this fellow you call Saxon? I notice O’Daly lugs him into about every other piece o’ po’try he nails me with, evenin’s.” “Sir, it’s our term for the Englishman, who oppreases us, an’ dhrives us to despair, an’ prevints our holdin’ our hieads up amongst the nations of the earth. Sure, sir, wasn’t all this counthry roundabout for a three days’ journey belongin’ to your ancesthors, till the English stole it and sold it to Boyle, that thief of the earth--and his tomb, be the same token, I’ve seen many a time at Youghal, where I was born. But--awh, sir, what’s the use o’ talkin’? Sure, the blood o’ the O’Mahonys ought to stir in your veins at the mere suspicion of an opporchunity to sthrike a blow for your counthry.” The O’Mahony yawned and stretched his long arms lazily in the sunshine. “Nary a stir,” he said, with an idle half-grin. “But what the deuce is it you’re drivin’ at anyway?” “Sir, I’ve towld ye we’re raisin’ an army--a great, thund’rin’ secret army--and whin it’s raised an’ our min all dhrilled an’ our guns an’ pikes all handy--sure, thin we’ll rise and fight. An’ it’s much mistaken I am in you, O’Mahony, if you’d be contint to lave this fun go on undher your nose, an’ you to have no hand in it.” “Of course I want to be in it,” said The O’Mahony, evincing more interest. “Only I couldn’t make head or tail of what you was talkin’ about. An’ I don’t know as I see yet jest what the scheme is. But you can count me in on anything that’s got gunpowder in it, an’ that’ll give me somethin’ to do besides list’nin’ to O’Daly’s yawp.”