Mr Murphy had discovered in a fit of caprice Con’s true function and office in life.
“Jay up!” cried the rider. “That’s not bad, but trot more even.”
“Let up wid them spurs, for the love of hiven, and I’ll trot as you want!” cried the steed.
“Wo!” answered the rider.
“What are yiz afther now?” said Con.
“Nothin’,” replied the rider, who had taken the pistol from his breast, and was examining the cap on it, with the infernal grin on his face broadened, as though the weapon were a joke he was reading in the pages of a comic paper.
What horrid thing was about to happen, who can say, when a brilliant thought passing through the brain of Mr Murphy, turned his grin into a whistle. He thrust the pistol back into his breast.
“Set me down,” said he.
Con did so with alacrity.
“I was on the pint of blowin’ the roof off your head,” said Mr Murphy, “but, I’ve changed me decison; at least, I b’lave I have. You trots well and you ain’t spavined: there’s on’y one pint I ain’t sure about—can yiz bray?”