“Come along, ma bouchal!” cried M'Guire; “come into the little place with us, here.”
“What do ye want with me, boys?” asked Owen, looking about him through the crowd.
“'Tis to take a hand at the cards, divil a more,” said an old fellow near, and the speech sent a savage laugh among the rest.
“I'm ready and willin',” said Owen; “but sorra farthen I've left me to play; and if the stakes is high—”
“Faix, that's what they're not,” said Heffernan; “they're the lowest ever ye played for.”
“Tell me what it is, anyway,” cried Owen.
“Just, the meanest thing at all—the life of the blaguard that turned yerself out of yer holdin'—Lucas the agent.”
“To kill Lucas?”
“That same; and if ye don't like the game, turn away and make room for a boy that has more spirit in him.”
“Who says I ever was afeard?” said Owen, on whom now the whisky was working. “Is it Luke Heffernan dares to face me down?—come out here, fair, and see will ye say it again.”