“Kape it,” said Mr Murphy; “bracelits is no use to me. Now it’s my turn. Con!”
Con presented his back and Mr Murphy mounted. The carriage was only a few hundred yards off, and the pair of ruffians, one on the back of the other, stood square before it on the roadway.
“Hulloo! hulloo!” cried Larry, reining in. “What are yiz? Why, it’s Paddy Murphy!”
With the stopping of the carriage the door flew open and General Grampound came out of the vehicle like a bombshell. He exploded on the road into unprintable language. Then he found himself fronting Murphy’s red, grinning face, and a pistol held within a foot of his head.
“Wan word out of you and I’ll blow your skylights off!” cried Murphy.
General Grampound’s long army experience had taught him to know an utterly desperate ruffian when he met one.
“Into the carridge wid you, Mr Fanshawe,” cried Murphy. “I’m wid yiz, miss,—I won’t harm the ould gintleman if he keeps a dacent tongue in his head, but I’m goin’ to give him a lesson in dancin’—away wid yiz! Good luck, and send me a piece of the weddin’ ceek.”
“Patsy, get on the box and come with us,” cried Mr Fanshawe as he bundled Miss Lestrange into the carriage and into the arms of Doris and Little Lord Gawdor, “the children are all right. Larry will drive them back. I’m very sorry,” he cried over his shoulder to his uncle; “it’s your own fault, if you have to walk home. This scoundrel has taken my watch and chain and all my money—nearly. I’ll write.”
“Larry,” cried Mr Murphy as the carriage drove off.
“What is it?”