“It’s a fine night,” said Billy the Rafter, as he accompanied his visitors to the door; “faith, you could see to rade print be the light of the moon. Keep your eye out for the police, Paddy, for they do be sayin’ wind of it all has got over to Shepherd’s Cross.”
“P’leece!” said Mr Murphy with fine contempt, producing the horse pistol and inspecting the cap on it. “Who’s you talkin’ to? Now thin, Con—Billy give me a leg up, for the whisky’s got under me.”
Con, obedient to the superior will, as a donkey turned his back; Billy the Rafter gave the required leg up, and Mr Murphy mounted.
“’Night to you, Billy,” cried the mounted one. “Jay up. Put your best fut foremost, for it’s home I ought to have been an hour ago.”
“Let up wid thim spurs,” grumbled Con, as he took the high-road; “aisy wid that whip, don’t be moidherin’ me, or it’s into the ditch we’ll be; for it’s a double load I’m carryin’ wid you on me back and the whisky aboard.”
“Faith,” confessed Mr Murphy, “it’s two moons I’m seein’ meself, and the road looks twishtin’ like a corkscrew. Musha, but it’s a glurious night; it calls to me mind the ould days whin I wint courtin’. Jay up, y’ divil, an’ keep the road.”
“Hould on,” said Con, who had better eyes in his head than his rider. “What’s that foreninst us on the road?”
Mr Murphy, shutting one eye, made out a black mass on the road ahead of them.
“It’s a cart broke down,” said he; “where there’s a smash-up there’s always pickin’s. Jay up—we’ll lind them our ’sistance.”
It was the dogcart—a horrible ruin, one wheel off and shafts broken. Patsy holding Fly-by-night (name of satire) by the bridle, Miss Lestrange seated, like a young and beautiful Niobe, in a mole-skin cloak, on the hedge bank, and Dicky Fanshawe trying to console her.