“You’ve only got to spit ’er out,” was the hearty response.
“Thin, sir, give us over the man ye ’ve got down stairs.”
The O’Mahony’s face changed its expression. He thought for a moment; then asked:
“What to do?”
“To dale wid this night!” said Murphy, solemnly.
There was a pause of silence, and then the clamor of a dozen eager voices clashing one against the other in the cold wintry twilight:
“Give him over, O’Mahony!” “L’ave him to us!” “Don’t be soilin’ yer own hands wid the likes of him!” “Oh, l’ave him to us!” these voices pleaded.
The O’Mahony hesitated for a minute, then slowly shook his head.
“No, boys, don’t ask it,” he said. “I’d like to oblige you, but I can’t. He’s my meat—I can’t give him up!”
“W’u’d yer honor be for sparin’ him, thin?” asked one, with incredulity and surprise.