“Arrah, thin,” said the overwhelmed Christy, “how could I rob or upset or confuse the Queen at all, at all. Sure, I niver cast my eyes on the ould heifer, good, bad, or indifferent.”
“Silence! Every word you say will be taken in evidence. That’s the law.”
“Wirra, thin, bad luck to that same law.”
“Silence, I say again. I cannot tolerate treasonable expressions before my men. Come along.”
Amid the sobbing of his wife and little ones, and utterly amazed and confounded, Christy was handcuffed and dragged to the police barracks, where he passed a miserable night. In the morning he was brought into the awful presence of O’Graball, who at once commenced in grave tones what he intended for a solemn interrogatory, but which proved in reality a rich burlesque:—
“Prisoner, what is your name?”
“Christy Connell, plaze your worship.”
“It does not please me. It is a notoriously disloyal name. There have been several Connells hanged at various times. Your very possession of such a name is in itself a suspicious circumstance. Sergeant, make a note of it. He confesses his name is Connell. So far our information is correct. Now, prisoner, tell me, had you a mother?”
“Arrah, to be sure I had. What do you think I am, at all, at all?”
“No prevarication, sir. You had also, I suppose, a father of the male gender?”