“Never! Cut me heart out, av ye will, but don’t ax me to take sich an oath as that. Kill me, cousin, an’ do it quick! I’m a wicked b’y an’ desarve to be kilt, but I shall niver listen to yer blarney ag’in, though it should save me life a hundred times!”
Thus far, Nick Robbins had listened to the conversation without moving from his tracks, but now, fearing the monster would carry out his dire threat, he thought the time for action had come. Beginning to hum a popular air, and dropping his gun to a trail, he walked boldly forward through the thick underbrush, creating as much noise as possible in the act. A few steps took him to a small opening in the woods, where Jim McCabe and the Irish boy, Mike Terry, were standing.
“Hello! what have we hyur?” exclaimed the hunter, stopping short and staring, with well-feigned surprise, at the lad.
McCabe was evidently somewhat flurried by the appearance of Robbins, but he managed to answer:
“Why, upon my word, you startled me, old fellow. Where did you come from so suddenly? You have been so long a while in making up your mind to follow me, that I had almost despaired of seeing you again very soon. That boy? Oh, he’s my cousin, Mike Terry. Come Mike; look up. Don’t you believe, I found him lying here asleep.”
“Did, hey? What’s he hyur fur?”
“He’s been searching for me, I presume. He is always wandering about and getting lost.”
“’Pears to me this is a bad place fur a chap o’ his heft to be strollin’ ’round alone,” said the hunter, gazing as closely and curiously at the boy as if he had never seen him before.
“My sentiments, precisely,” laughed McCabe, “and for that reason I think we had better keep him under our protection, now he’s here.”