“What will he do?” inquired he.
“Give you thirty-nine and land you!” says I.
“Land me where?”
“In the middle of the say!” says I.
“Murther!” says he.
“Moighty like it,” says I; “but he’ll do it!”
“I’d have to give up the ghost then!” says he.
“You would, in airnest!” I tould him. “But you mustn’t do it yet. Tell me how you come on boord?”
“I will,” says he. “When the boys found me, I had only a flesh wound, and had fainted from loss of blood. They got a car, and smuggled me down to Cork. I had scarcely set my fut on deck, as the peelers came rowing up the side. When the order was given to muster all hands, I made my way to the hould, and hid myself in the straw in an empty crate in the darkest corner of the place. The men searched pretty closely, but, as good luck would have it, they passed by my hiding-place.”
“You must go back to it. But now, Miles O’Rourke, answer me one question, and, as you are a man, answer it truly!”