“Well, then, what I want you to promise is this: That you’ll go on as you have been doin’, workin’ hard, keepin’ sober, an’ behavin’ yourselves, an’ that you’ll mind what Jerry says, same as if I said it myself. An’ more than that--an’ now this is a thing I’m specially sot on--that you’ll look upon that little gal, Kate O’Mahony, as if she was a daughter of mine, an’ watch over her, an’ make things pleasant for her, an’--an’ treat her like the apple of your eye.” If there was an apple in The O’Mahony’s eye, it was for the moment hidden in a vail of moisture. The faces of the men and their words alike responded to his emotion. Then one of them, a lean and unkempt old mariner, who even in this keen February air kept his hairy breast and corded, sunburnt throat exposed, and whose hawk-like eyes had flashed through fifty years of taciturnity over heaven knows what wild and fantastic dreams born of the sea, spoke up: “Sir, by your l’ave, I’ll mesilf be her bodyguard and her servant, and tache her the wather as befits her blood, and keep the very sole of her fut from harrum.” “Right you are, Murphy,” said The O’Mahony. “Make that your job.” No one remembered ever having heard Murphy speak so much at one time before. To the surprise of the group, he had still more to say. “And, sir--I’m not askin’ it be way of ricompinse,” the fierce-faced old boatman went on--“but w’u’d your honor grant us wan requist?” “You’ve only got to spit ’er out,” was the hearty response. “Thin, sir, give us over the man ye ’ve got down stairs.” The O’Mahony’s face changed its expression. He thought for a moment; then asked: “What to do?” “To dale wid this night!” said Murphy, solemnly. There was a pause of silence, and then the clamor of a dozen eager voices clashing one against the other in the cold wintry twilight: “Give him over, O’Mahony!” “L’ave him to us!” “Don’t be soilin’ yer own hands wid the likes of him!” “Oh, l’ave him to us!” these voices pleaded. The O’Mahony hesitated for a minute, then slowly shook his head. “No, boys, don’t ask it,” he said. “I’d like to oblige you, but I can’t. He’s _my_ meat--I can’t give him up!” “W’u’d yer honor be for sparin’ him, thin?” asked one, with incredulity and surprise.