“She is.”
“Then it’s I that’ll be takin’ her up the warmin’-pan and the cough-drops if so be you have them ready—wan minute, till I say a word to Con Cogan.”
He turned and spoke in a low voice to some one beside him on the path, then he turned again to the window.
“Right!” cried Patsy; the rope flew through the pulley, an ear-splitting yell pierced the house, then a voice from the ceiling.
“Holy Mary! I’m upside down. Help! Murther! Thieves! Lave go of the band of me britches!—who are yiz at all? Patsy! Con!—the divil’s got a hold o’ me! Help! I’m shtranglin’!”
“Strike a light, quick!” cried Mr Fanshawe. “Keep a hold of the rope, Larry! Stop that row, you idiot! Here—give us the matches—keep tight hold of the rope, Larry!”
A match flared up.
From the upper part of the house, through the ear-splitting shouts of the captured one, could be heard the sounds of hurried feet, doors banging, and all the sound of a house full of people awakened by catastrophe at dead of night.
The rope had caught Mr Murphy below his centre of gravity. He was hanging head down. He was kicking the plaster to pieces with his feet, and striking wildly about him with his arms. He had been carrying an open clasp-knife but had dropped it; it lay on the floor, and Mr Fanshawe kicked it under the bed.
“Lave holt of me!” cried Mr Murphy, when the light showed him an upside-down view of his proper position, and the fact that the devil had not got him by the band of his breeches. “Lave holt of me, and I’ll go quiet.”