“You were a United Irishman, Mr. M'Keown, I believe?” rejoined the counsel, with a frown of stern intimidation.
“Yes, sir; and a White Boy, and a Defender, and a Thrasher besides. I was in all the fun them times.”
“The Thrashers are the fellows, I believe, who must beat any man they are appointed to attack; isn't that so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So that, if I was mentioned to you as a person to be assaulted, although I had never done you any injury, you 'd not hesitate to waylay me?”
“No, sir, I wouldn't do that. I'd not touch yer honor.”
“Come, come; what do you mean? Why wouldn't you touch me?”
“I' d rather not tell, av it was plazing to ye.”
“You must tell, sir; speak out! Why wouldn't you attack me?”
“They say, sir,” said Darby,—and as he spoke, his voice assumed a peculiar lisp, meant to express great modesty,—“they say, sir, that when a man has a big wart on his nose there, like yer honor, it's not lucky to bate him, for that's the way the divil marks his own.”