Miss Keohane retired, without having moulted a feather of her dignity, and her brother Jer came heavily up the steps and on to the platform, his hot, wary, blue eyes gathering in the Bench and the attorneys in one bold comprehensive glance. He was a tall, dark man of about five and forty, clean-shaved, save for two clerical inches of black whiskers, and in feature of the type of a London clergyman who would probably preach on Browning.
"Well, sir!" began Mr. Mooney stimulatingly, "and are you the biggest blackguard from here to America?"
"I am not," said Jer Keohane tranquilly.
"We had you here before us not so very long ago about kicking a goat, wasn't it? You got a little touch of a pound, I think?"
This delicate allusion to a fine that the Bench had thought fit to impose did not distress the witness.
"I did, sir."
"And how's our friend the goat?" went on Mr. Mooney, with the furious facetiousness reserved for hustling tough witnesses.
"Well, I suppose she's something west of the Skelligs by now," replied Jer Keohane with great composure.
An appreciative grin ran round the court. The fact that the goat had died of the kick and been "given the cliff" being regarded as an excellent jest.
Mr. Mooney consulted his notes: