“O, father, here’s my white pigeon come back of his own accord,” exclaimed Brian; “I must run and show him to my mother.” At this instant the pigeon spread his wings, and Brian discovered under one of its wings a small and very dirty looking billet. He opened it in his father’s presence. The scrawl was scarcely legible; but these words were at length deciphered:—
“Thare are eight of uz sworn; I send yo at botom thare names. We meat at tin this nite at my faders, and have harms and all in radiness to brak into the grate ’ouse. Mr. Summervill is to lye out to nite—kip the pigeon untill to-morrow. For ever yours,
Murtagh Cox, Jun.”
Scarcely had they finished reading this note, than both father and son exclaimed, “Let us go and show it to Mr. Somerville.” Before they set out, they had, however, the prudence to secure the pigeon, so that he should not be seen by anyone but themselves. Mr. Somerville, in consequence of this fortunate discovery, took proper measures for the apprehension of the eight men who had sworn to rob his house. When they were all safely lodged in the county gaol, he sent for Brian O’Neill and his father; and after thanking them for the service they had done him, he counted out ten bright guineas upon a table, and pushed them towards Brian, saying, “I suppose you know that a reward of ten guineas was offered some weeks ago for the discovery of John Mac Dermod, one of the eight men whom we have just taken up?”
“No, sir,” said Brian; “I did not know it, and I did not bring that note to you to get ten guineas, but because I thought it was right. I don’t want to be paid for doing it.”
“That’s my own boy,” said his father. “We thank you, sir; but we’ll not take the money; I don’t like to take the price of blood.”
“I know the difference, my good friends,” said Mr. Somerville, “between vile informers and courageous, honest men.”
“Why, as to that, please your honour, though we are poor, I hope we are honest.”
“And, what is more,” said Mr. Somerville, “I have a notion that you would continue to be honest, even if you were rich. Will you, my good lad,” continued Mr. Somerville, after a moment’s pause—“will you trust me with your pigeon a few days?”
“O, and welcome, sir,” said the boy, with a smile; and he brought the pigeon to Mr. Somerville when it was dark, and nobody saw him.
A few days afterwards, Mr. Somerville called at O’Neill’s house, and bid him and his son follow him. They followed till he stopped opposite to the bow-window of the new inn. The carpenter had just put up a sign, which was covered over with a bit of carpeting.