“Misther Fanshawe.”
The voice came from above. Dicky looked up. Mr Murphy had scrambled up, and was leaning over the tree-top rim.
“Misther Fanshawe, there’s no call for fightin’. I’ll come down and settle me account peaceful wid Billy Croom. I’ll go wid him quiet, for I’m sure to be cocht anyhow, and he may as well have the hundred pound as another. Aisy, now, Mr Fanshawe, and listen to me. I’ll go wid Billy on one condijion.”
“What’s that?” asked Mr Fanshawe, glad to be done with the business.
“That you take hould of Con Cogan’s arm over there, and hould him till I ax you to loose him, for I’m powerful anxious to say a word to him before I goes to prizon.”
“Right!” said Dicky, stepping over to where Con stood and taking hold of his arm.
“I ax you, sir,” said Mr Murphy, “not to loose him till I say when.”
“Right!” said Mr Fanshawe.
“Now,” said Mr Murphy, whipping a frightful-looking old horse pistol into view and levelling it at the head of Billy Croom, who stood right at the bottom of the tree, “now that all’s settled. I’m going to have a word wid me friend, Billy. Move the hundredth part of an inch, y’ widge-faced houn’, and your brains go on the grass. Misther Fanshawe, will yiz ax the young lady to go away beyant and shut her eyes and ears?”
“Go quick!” cried Dicky, and he had not to repeat his words. “Hi, you scoundrel, stop it! You’re not going to shoot the man.”