“There’s yoursilf,” responded Jerry, meditatively, “an’ mesilf an’ Linsky—me cousin, Joseph Higgins, I mane. That’s all, if ye l’ave O’Daly out. An’ that’s what bothers me wits, who the divil did l’ave him out?”
“This cousin of yours, as you call him,” put in the resident magistrate—“what did he mean by speaking of him as Linsky? No lying, now.”
“Lying, is it, your honor? ’T is aisy to see you’re a stranger in these parts, to spake that word to me. Egor, ’t is me truth-tellin ’s kept me the poor man I am. I remember, now, sir, wance on a time whin I was only a shlip of a lad—”
“What did you call him Linsky for?” Major Snaffle demanded, peremptorily.
“Well, sir,” answered Jerry, unabashed, “’t is because he’s freckles on him. ‘Linsky’ is the Irish for a ‘freckled man!’ Sure, O’Daly would tell you the same—if yer honor could find him.”
The major did not look entirely convinced.
“I don’t doubt it,” he said, with grim sarcasm; “every man, woman and child of you all would tell the same. Come now—we’ll get up out of this. Link your arms together, and give me the lantern.”
“By your lave, sir,” interposed Jerry, “that trick ye told us of your father—w’u’d that have been in a marteller tower, on the coast beyant Kinsale? Egor, sir, I was there! ’T was me tuk the gun-rags from your father’s mouth. Sure, ’t is in me ricolliction as if ’t was yesterday. There stud The O’Mahony—”
At the sound of the name on his tongue, Jerry stopped short. The secret of that expedition had been preserved so long. Was there danger in revealing it now.
To Bernard the name suggested another thought. He turned swiftly to Jerry.