The body belonging to the face came forth from behind the tree-bole, and Mr Murphy, greatly tattered, evidently exhausted, but still grinning, stood before them.
“Faith,” said Mr Murphy, with a tone of happy recognition, “it’s yourself, sor, and glad I am to see you.”
“Can’t return the compliment,” said Mr Fanshawe.
“I’m bone dry,” said Mr Murphy, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. “Near run off me legs. I’ve left me ould hat in the brambles beyant, and it’s sorry I am to appear before the young lady all rags an’ tatters—whisht!”
Shouts and haloos came from the distance, and the yapping of a dog.
“They’re afther me still!” said Mr Murphy, as though he were speaking to confederates. “Listen to ’um, Mr Fanshawe, sir, you’re a gintleman, you won’t be givin’ me away, will you, if they axes have you seen me?”
“Not I,” said Dicky. “But don’t waste time here talking, hook it as hard as you can; they are coming.”
“Unhappy man!” cried Violet, gazing with dilated eyes at the tattered figure before her.
“Make haste! Dicky, have you no money to give him to help him? Listen—they are coming—don’t wait to be taken—fly!”
“It’s into the tree I’ll be flyin’ if you get off me dure-step, miss,” said the pursued one, buttoning the one button of his coat and preparing to climb. “It’s me house is this ould tree, an’ I’ve lived in her a month wid me ear to the ground for the polis. Aisy does it.”