As he approached now the little crypt, he perceived that a greater number than usual were assembled through the churchyard, and many were gathered in little knots and groups, talking eagerly together; a half-nod, a scarcely muttered “Good even,” was all the salutation he met, as he moved towards the little cell, where, by the blaze of a piece of bog-pine, a party were regaling themselves—the custom and privilege of those who had been last out on any marauding expedition. A smoking pot of potatoes and some bottles of whisky formed the entertainment, at which Owen stood a longing and famished spectator.
“Will yez never be done there eatin' and crammin' yerselves?” said a gruff voice from the crowd to the party within; “and ye know well enough there's business to be done to-night.”
“And ain't we doing it?” answered one of the feasters. “Here's your health, Peter!” and so saying, he took a very lengthened draught from the “poteen” bottle.
“'Tis the thrade ye like best, anyhow,” retorted the other. “Come, boys; be quick now!”
The party did not wait a second bidding, but arose from the place, and removing the big pot to make more room, they prepared the little cell for the reception of some other visitors.
“That's it now! We'll not be long about it. Larry, have yez the deck,' my boy?”
“There's the book, darlint,” said a short, little, de-crepid creature, speaking with an asthmatic effort, as he produced a pack of cards, which, if one were to judge from the dirt, made the skill of the game consist as much in deciphering as playing them.
“Where's Sam M'Guire?” called out the first speaker, in a voice loud enough to be heard over the whole space around; and the name was repeated from voice to voice, till it was replied to by one who cried—
“Here, sir; am I wanted?”
“You are, Sam; and 'tis yourself is always to the fore when we need yez.”