“Mike Murphy, born in Tipperary, in the County of Tipperary, Ireland, and lately, arrove in Ameriky.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Standing still for the time, as Pat Mulrooney said whin the byes tied him to the gate post and wint off and left him.”
“Ain’t you one of those post office robbers?”
The question told Mike the whole truth. It was a clever trick that had been played upon him, and his musical laugh rang out on the still night.
“What made ye have that opinion?”
“I just met a young chap the other side of this barn, and when I stopped him he said he was running away from an enemy.”
“Which the same was the thruth.”
“And that one of the gang was chasing him, meaning to shoot him.”
“It’s mesilf that would have shot if I’d had a gun wid a conscience, fur I catched the spalpeen when he was opening the safe of Widder Friestone, and I made after him; but most persons can run faster than mesilf, owing to me short legs, and he was laving me behind, whin ye interfared.”