“‘Couldn’t they take her up again, Peter? My friend here never saw a wake.’
“‘I’m afeered not; for it was the boys roasted her, and she wouldn’t be a decent corpse for to show a stranger,’ said Peter, in a whisper.
“Mr. Prettyman shuddered at these peaceful indications of the neighborhood, and said nothing.
“‘Well, then, Peter, tell Jimmy Divine to take the old musket in my bedroom, and go over to the Clunagh bog,—he can’t go wrong. There’s twelve families there that never pay a halfpenny rent; and when it’s done, let him give notice to the neighborhood, and we’ll have a rousing wake.’
“‘You don’t mean, Mr. Macnamara,—you don’t mean to say—’ stammered out the cockney, with a face like a ghost.
“‘I only mean to say,’ said Phil, laughing, ‘that you’re keeping the decanter very long at your right hand.’
“Burke contrived to interpose before the Englishman could ask any explanation of what he had just heard,—and for some minutes he could only wait in impatient anxiety,—when a loud report of a gun close beside the house attracted the attention of the guests. The next moment old Peter entered, his face radiant with smiles.
“‘Well, what’s that?’ said Macnamara.
“‘‘T was Jimmy, yer honor. As the evening was rainy, he said he’d take one of the neighbors; and he hadn’t to go far, for Andy Moore was going home, and he brought him down at once.’
“‘Did he shoot him?’ said Mr. Prettyman, while cold perspiration broke over his forehead. ‘Did he murder the man?’