“Yes, sir, I'm young Owen,” said the young man, rising, but not without difficulty; while he steadied himself by holding the door-post.
“So then I am all right: Tracy, lead the pony about, till I call you;” and so saying, he dismounted and entered the cabin.
“Sit down, Owen; yes, yes—I insist upon it, and do you, also. I have come up here to-day to have a few moments' talk with you about an occurrence that took place last week at the fair. There was a young gentleman, Mr. Leslie, got roughly treated by some of the people: let me hear your account of it.”
Owen and his father exchanged glances; the same idea flashed across the minds of both, that the visitor was a magistrate come to take information against the Joyces for an assault; and however gladly they would have embraced any course that promised retaliation for their injuries, the notion of recurring to the law was a degree of baseness they would have scorned to adopt.
“I'll take the 'vestment' I never seen it at all,” said the old man eagerly, and evidently delighted that no manner of cross-questioning or badgering could convert him into an informer.
“And the little I saw,” said Owen, “they knocked out of my memory with this;” and he pointed to the half-healed gash on his forehead.
“But you know something of how the row begun?”
“No, yer honor, I was at the other side of the fair.”
“Was young Mr. Leslie in fault—did you hear that?”
“I never heerd that he did any thing—unagreeable,” said Owen, after hesitating for a few seconds in his choice of a word.