“Ah!” said they, “you may be the best shot in the country, but you are wrong to use such a short weapon, it cannot be relied on; you would miss a man at ten paces.”
“You say that I could not be sure of my aim!” cried Mr. Trench; “you shall see.”
Instantly I heard a frightful noise, in which I distinguished three reports, a sound of broken glass, and then I felt on my back and head a succession of tiny pricks, as though all the archers of Lilliput were shooting at me. Thinking it was a Fenian attack I sprang to the tomahawk, seized the revolver in the other hand, and, entrenched behind my arm-chair, I awaited events.
It was only Mr. Trench who had fired at the candle within a foot of my head. The first two bullets had simply broken the sconce, the last had cut the candle in two, and one of the balls had struck a box of steel pens that had been placed on a what-not; the pens had flown into the air, and some had fallen into my collar and had produced the pricking.
After warmly congratulating the master of the house, the guests took leave of us, we conducting them to the door. There each one grasped his shillalah with the left hand and his revolver with the right, and we saw them passing all the clumps of trees carefully and at a respectful distance. For ourselves, after watching them for a minute we securely barricaded the door, and I was then shown to a capital room, where I slept in an excellent bed.
But what an extraordinary country!
CHAPTER V.
AN AGENT’S MORNING—HOW A DAIRY IS FOUNDED—MR. O’LEARY’S CASE—MINISTER AND ARCHDEACON—CATHOLIC ORGANISATION IN IRELAND—THE DISTRESS OF THE TAX-PAYERS AT KENMARE—AN INDIGNATION MEETING—THE IRISH CONSTABULARY.