“More red herrings!” exclaimed Darby, emancipating himself by a sudden movement from the gripe of Quality, and advancing to a position whence he could look the pedlar fall in the face; “three more red herrings! Well, after that I've done, any how!”. “Next,” continued Batter, who had now grown rather communicative, “I searched the Irishman.” “And how dared you do so?” exclaimed Sir Waldron, striding from the window with as great energy as he had strode toward it; “how dared you do so, dolt?--Irishman, what are you?” “I'm an Irishman, your honour!” replied Darby, and Sir Waldron strode to the window with greater emphasis of cadence than he had strode from it, muttering imprecations as he went. “Have you been in the service?” inquired Reginald; “it has pleased Providence to pour great bodily afflictions on you;--such losses as those of a leg, an arm---” “E' then, your honour,” interrupted Darby, “afflictions they are, indeed:--my leg lost a good friend in losing me; I cut his corns for him every week, and kept him warm in a good worsted stocking, and shoes at never less than seven and sixpence the pair, since he came of age: but that's not the question, your worship's reverence and glory; but this is it,--I ask pardon for contradicting,--but don't fear,--I won't quarrel wid your worships excellence:--Here's three of us: that's me, the tinker; and the man o' the herrings there--the pedlar; we all wants the child, and no blame to us, for she's a beauty;--and having no kith or kin, that we can find out, nor a soul alive to own her--” “She escheats,” interrupted Batter, “as a waif, or an estray, in such cases, to the lord of the manor, Sir Waldron.” “The lord of Bally-no-place, and my nose, too!” said Darby, snapping his fingers at Batter; “do you call her cattle? ye he-cow, ye!--Well, then, your honour's worship,” continued Darby, turning, with a smile on his face, towards Reginald, “as we couldn't agree about her, for she came to us together, and we've no great opinion of one another--that is, I haven't of the pedlar or the tinker, may be; and it's not unlikely they think bad of me,--why shouldn't they?--why then, rather than quarrel,--which I'm not one for, though well able, barring my limbs and eye,--we tould the middle and both ends of it to dirty Butter here.” “Batter, prisoner, if you please,” quoth the constable of that name. “Well, to Batter, be it then; but of all the beasts or constables to boot under the moon, he's the most stupid. Well, then, when we couldn't make him understand our story, we insisted on his comprehending us.” “And here they are, Sir Waldron,” quoth Quality. “This is another of your cock-and-bull stories,” said the Baronet, returning to his chair. “What have we to do with this? Who is the third party?” “The tinker, your worship,” observed Quality; “I suspect Batter knows him.”