“What's here, Mary?” said Barton, striking the large pot that hung over the fire with his foot. “It's the boys' dinner, sir,” said the girl. “I think it wouldn't be a bad job if we joined them,” replied he, laughingly,--“eh, sergeant?” “There 'ill be enough for us all,” said Malone; “and I'm sure ye're welcome to it.” The table was quickly spread, the places next the fire being reserved for the strangers; while Malone, unlocking a cupboard, took down a bottle of whiskey, which he placed before them, remarking, as he did so,-- “Don't be afeard, gentlemen, 'tis Parliament.” “That 's right, Malone. I like a man to be loyal in these bad times; there's nothing like it. (Faith, Mary, you're a good cook; that's as savory a stew as ever I tasted.) Where 's Patsey now? I have n't seen him for some time.” The girl's face grew dark red, and then became as suddenly pale; when, staggering back, she lifted her apron to her face, and leaned against the dresser. “He's transported for life,” said Malone, in a deep, sepulchral voice, while all his efforts to conceal agitation were fruitless. “Oh, I remember,” said Barton, carelessly; “he was in the dock with the Hogans. (I 'll take another bone from you, Ned. Sergeant, that 's a real Irish dish, and no bad one either.)” “What's doing at the town to-day?” said Malone, affecting an air of easy indifference. “Nothing remarkable, I believe. They have taken up that rascal. Darby the Blast, as they call him. The major had him under examination this morning for two hours; and they say he 'll give evidence against the Dillons, (a little more fat, if ye please;) money, you know, Ned, will do anything these times.” “You ought to know that, sir,” said Maurice, with such an air of assumed innocence as actually made Barton look ashamed. In an instant, however, he recovered himself, and pretended to laugh at the remark. “Your health, sergeant; Ned Malone, your health; ladies, yours; and boys, the same.” A shower of “thank ye, sir's,” followed this piece of unlooked-for courtesy. “Who's that boy there, Ned?” said he, pointing to me as I sat with my eyes riveted upon him. “He's from this side of Banagher, sir,” said Malone, evading the question. “Come over here, younker. What 's his name?” “Tom, sir.” “Come over, Tom, till I teach you a toast. Here's a glass, my lad; hold it steady, till I fill you a bumper. Did you ever hear tell of the croppies?” “No, never!” “Never heard of the croppies! Well, you're not long in Ned Malone's company anyhow, eh? ha! ha! ha! Well, my man, the croppies is another name for the rebels, and the toast I 'm going to give you is about them. So mind you finish it at one pull. Here now, are you ready?” “Yes, quite ready,” said I, as I held the brimming glass straight before me. “Here 's it, then,-- “'May every croppy taste the rope. And find some man to hang them; May Bagnal Harvey and the Pope Have Heppenstal to hang them!'”