I told him, and that the party was led by an Irishman named Moriarty.
“Ah! yes, I know him. Tall, handsome, dashing young Irish cavalier—isn’t he?”
“No,” I said; “a middle-aged, bullying, ruffianly sort of a fellow, with a red nose,” I replied.
“Humph! Then where do you come from?”
“Cameldorn Farm.”
“Eh? Hullo!” cried the young man who had captured me. “I say, take off your hat.”
“What for?” I asked.
“Because I want to look at you. How’s that scratch you got on the arm from the lioness?”
“What do you know about the scratch?” I said, leaning forward to look the speaker full in the eyes.
“Why, only that I shot her. What’s your name? Of course, Val.”