“Oh, I remember,” said Barton, carelessly; “he was in the dock with the Hogans. (I 'll take another bone from you, Ned. Sergeant, that 's a real Irish dish, and no bad one either.)”
“What's doing at the town to-day?” said Malone, affecting an air of easy indifference.
“Nothing remarkable, I believe. They have taken up that rascal. Darby the Blast, as they call him. The major had him under examination this morning for two hours; and they say he 'll give evidence against the Dillons, (a little more fat, if ye please;) money, you know, Ned, will do anything these times.”
“You ought to know that, sir,” said Maurice, with such an air of assumed innocence as actually made Barton look ashamed. In an instant, however, he recovered himself, and pretended to laugh at the remark. “Your health, sergeant; Ned Malone, your health; ladies, yours; and boys, the same.” A shower of “thank ye, sir's,” followed this piece of unlooked-for courtesy. “Who's that boy there, Ned?” said he, pointing to me as I sat with my eyes riveted upon him.
“He's from this side of Banagher, sir,” said Malone, evading the question.
“Come over here, younker. What 's his name?”
“Tom, sir.”
“Come over, Tom, till I teach you a toast. Here's a glass, my lad; hold it steady, till I fill you a bumper. Did you ever hear tell of the croppies?”
“No, never!”
“Never heard of the croppies! Well, you're not long in Ned Malone's company anyhow, eh? ha! ha! ha! Well, my man, the croppies is another name for the rebels, and the toast I 'm going to give you is about them. So mind you finish it at one pull. Here now, are you ready?”