“An’ is it mak me moind aisy, sor, when I can’t get spache of the darlin’, and that Black Mazzard in hiding somewhere and freckening the poor sowl to death!”
“Surely, there is nothing to fear from him now?”
“Faix, and I don’t know that same. I shall always be freckened about him till a dacent praste has tied us two together toightly, and then I sha’n’t be happy till I know that Black Mazzard’s nailed up bechuckst four boards; and if I’ve annything to do wid it they shall be as thick as trees and nailed wid screws.”
“He has made his escape somewhere?”
“Not he, sor; and I don’t like the look o’ things. I’ve been too much shut up to see annything, being more like a cockroach in a whishky bottle and the cork tied down than annything else. But I’m skeart, captain darlin’; and if annything happens—whisht! have ye kept my saycret?”
He put his lips close to the prisoner’s ears, and whispered as he gave a knowing look at the couch.
“It is a secret still, Dinny.”
“Good luck to ye, sor! Thin, if annything happens, just you go there and lie shnug till I come to ye; and if ye’ll tak’ my advice ye’ll keep on putting a dhrop o’ wine in the cellar and shtoring up a bit o’ food; and if it isn’t wanted, why ye’re no worse off.”
“Explain yourself, my lad,” said the prisoner, for the lively chatter of the Irishman relieved the tedium of his confinement.
“Hist!”