“Now,” cried he, when he was on his feet, “help me, all of yiz, to clear the rubbage out of the road.”
They bent to their task, and in a minute the ruined dogcart was tumbled into the ditch and the road was clear.
“Listen!” said Miss Lestrange, who had risen to her feet.
The sound of hoofs and wheels came on the night air, and far on the road appeared a carriage rapidly approaching.
“Now, Mr Fanshawe,” said Murphy, whipping out his old pistol, “this is him, and I’m goin’ to give yiz a carridge to ride in, but you’ve got to pay for it, begob. One good turn desarves another. Out wid your money or your life!”
“Why, you infernal scoundrel!” cried Dicky.
“Out wid it!” cried Murphy—“watch and chain and all; times is bad, and I’ve no use for parlymentaries—I’m goin’ to give yiz a carridge to the station; would you have me play highwayman with the ould gentleman and let you go free?”
“I see,” cried Dicky, who caught the other’s meaning. “Here you are, if the business has to be done this way, I’d sooner stand in.”
“Sure, I knew you would,” said Mr Murphy, now thoroughly sober; “you’re a gintleman to the last button of your wistcoat. Give me the suverins, take back the notes; they’re no use to me, bad cess to them! Now the watch and chain. Thank you kindly. Has the young lady any movables?”
“Only this bracelet,” said Violet.