"I don't know the rights of it, but there's nothing serious. Old Nick'll always take care of his own. He fell down with the horse, and they took him up, an' carried him into the farm; then the doctor was sent for, and after a bit the two o' them drove back here together. That's all I know about it. It's up at the house ye'll hear the whole story. But my old woman'll be looking out for me. Good night to yez." And this time he moved off quickly.
"Isn't it lucky he wasn't killed!" said Rosie. "We'd never have been able to get the rent then."
"I wonder why they always shoot people," said Winnie. "Last year when Mr. Dalrymple was in Italy they shot Mr. Williams, and now they've tried to shoot old Plunkett."
"Because they're agents," replied Murtagh, promptly. "And I don't exactly know what agents are, but it's something very bad. They're tyrants, and they oppress everybody. That man that was fishing with me and Pat O'Toole said Ireland would never be free till all the agents were killed."
"Are you quite sure old Plunkett's an agent?" asked Bobbo, with interest.
"Quite sure," replied Murtagh, "because they said so; and besides, can't we see he is ourselves? Isn't he always oppressing people?"
"Why doesn't the Queen banish them all out of Ireland?" said Winnie. "That's what I'd do if I were her."
"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Bobbo, laughing, "wouldn't it be a jolly lark if she banished old Plunkett?"
"Yes; but, Murtagh," said Rosie, "how are we going to get the rent? It's all very fine talking, but we never seem to get one bit nearer to it."
"And we're not likely to get a bit nearer to it, to-night," said Murtagh, with a sigh. "We've just got to wait till to-morrow morning. It's no use thinking about it. Here goes, Winnie; I'll race you to the house!"