“Who’s the ould gintleman, Larry?” asked Mr Murphy, looking the strange figure of the General up and down in an interested manner.
“If you ask me one question at a time,” said Dicky, to whom all the General’s questions had been addressed, “I may be able to answer you. This is a burglar I have just caught—I caught him with that rope, and the infernal row, as you call it, was made by him.”
“Then what the devil are you doing with him?” cried General Grampound. “Why don’t you bind him, eh? Why haven’t you sent for the police?”
“Oh don’t bother,” cried Dicky, “I’ve caught him when you were all snoring in bed, asleep, and now you come down abusing me, and asking questions. He’s mine, and I’ll do jolly well what I like with him. Here, Murphy, or whatever your name is, come along. Patsy, lead the way to the potato room; you said there were bars to the windows of it, we’ll lock him up there.”
“Do you mean to tell me you are not going to take the precaution to tie the ruffian’s hands?” cried General Grampound.
“Listen to the ould cuckatoo!” cried Mr Murphy.
“Shut up!” said Dicky. “Go before me. Patsy, lead the way.”
He caught Mr Murphy by the arm and pushed him along protesting. Larry Lyburn and old James followed to help in the incarceration, and Uncle Molyneux and the General retired upstairs to quiet the women folk—the General, like Mr Murphy, protesting.
The potato room was a large stone chamber. It had bars to the window, and the window looked out on the stable-yard. It was really a store-room, where all sorts of things were kept—sacks of flour and meal, hams, sides of bacon, everything but potatoes.
“In you go,” said Mr Fanshawe, when they reached the door. “I’ll get you a mattress or something to sleep on, and you can tell your story to the police in the morning. Sit down on that sack there and wait till we come back.”