“Hulloo, hulloo,” cried Mr Murphy, as he trotted up, “what’s the truble wid ye? Why, glory be to God, it’s Mr Fanshawe!”
“It’s Murphy!” cried Dicky Fanshawe, a feeling of hope springing up in his breast, for, whatever else the ruffian might be, he was a man of resource, and if there was such a thing as gratitude in the whole wide world, a friend.
Mr Murphy, from his point of vantage, gazed with a grin at the smashed cart, the weeping girl, the distracted Mr Fanshawe, and Patsy. Then touching Con with a spur he rode round the ruined vehicle and inspected it. Miss Lestrange noticed with an obfusc sort of horror that Con obeyed voice and spur just like a horse. The whole thing felt like a terrible and fantastic nightmare.
“There’s no time to lose!” cried Dicky, when Mr Murphy had made his inspection. “The thing is smashed beyond mending. Murphy, for heaven’s sake, do you know of a horse and trap anywhere near? I must get to Tullagh by four to catch the mail to Dublin. See here, we are running away, this young lady and I——”
“There’s not a horse and cart nearer than four miles,” said Murphy; “is there, Con?”
“Divil a wan,” replied the steed.
“Good Lord!” cried Dicky, “and we’re being chased. The General is after us in the carriage—you remember the old gentleman with the red face?”
“He’s afther you, is he, in a carriage?” said Mr Murphy.
“He is—he’ll be here any minute.”
“Con,” cried Mr Murphy, “set me down.”