Molly immediately made her appearance. “Troth I dunna who he is,” she replied; “he's some poor boy on his keepin', about tithes, tha' _He_ brought here to-night.” “That's a cursed lie, Molly; wid' many respects to you, _He_ couldn't a' been here to-night.” “Thank you, sir, whoever you are; but I tell you it's no lie; and he was here, and left that boy wid me, desirin' me to let him come to no injury, for that--” and this was an addition of her own, “there was hundreds offered for the takin' of him.” “Why, what did he do, did you hear?” “He whispered to me,” she replied, in a low voice, but loud enough for M'Carthy to hear, “that he shot a tithe-proctor.” “We'll see what he's made of, though,” said one of them; “and, at all events, we'd act very shabbily if we didn't give him a share af what's goin'; but aisy, boys,” he added, “take care--ay! aisy, I say, safe's the word; who knows but he's a spy in disguise, and, in that case, we'll have a different card to play. Hallo! neighbor,” he exclaimed, giving M'Carthy a shove, who started up and looked about him with admirable tact. “What--what--eh--what's this? who are you all? what are you about?” he asked, and as he spoke, he sprung to his feet. “What's this?” he exclaimed again. “Sweet Jasus! is this Fagan the tithe-proctor that I shot? eh--or are you--stay--no--ah, no--not the polis. Oh, Lord, but I'm relieved; I thought you were polis, but I see by your faces that I'm safe, at last--I hope so.” “Ay, to be sure, you're safe--safe--as--as the bank (hiccup). You're a gintlemen, si--r you're a Con Roe--the ace o' hearts you are. Ay, you shot--like a ma--an, and didn't card--ard him wid tomcats, and then put the poo--oo--oor (hiccup) devil into a grave lined wid thorns; ah, you cowardly ould villain! the devil, in the shape of a to--to--tom-cat will card you in hell yet; an' moreover, you'll ne--never--ever die in your bed, you hard-hearted ould scut o' blazes; an' that you may not, I pray Ja--sa--sus this night--an' God forgive us all--amin, acheema!” “Hould your drunken tongue, Ned,” said he who seemed to assume authority over them; “we want to put this poor boy, who died of liquor to-night, into the bed, and I suppose you'll have no objection.” “None at all at all,” replied M'Carthy, assuming the brogue, at which, fortunately for himself, he was an adept; “it's a good man's case, boys; blood an' turf, give him a warm birth of it--he'll find it snug and comfortable.” They then placed the corpse on the bed but changing their mind, they raised him for a moment, putting him under the bedclothes, pinned a stocking, about his head to give him a domestic look; after which they returned to the tap-room of the shebeen-house, for such in fact it was. The latter change in the position of the corpse was made from an apprehension lest the police might come in search of the body, and with the hope that he might pass for a person asleep.