"Come, mon, and git out o' the blues. Whoy, these are the jolliest fullows we uver mot."
"And there isn't better liquor in the Cawstle cellars. Here's to yer health, missus."
So the night wore on.
But two poor women had an anxious time. These were Lizzie, who, in some mysterious manner, persuaded herself that she was responsible for the custody and safe keeping of the bailiffs in the eyes of the law; and if anything happened to them she might be summoned up to Dublin, and put on her trial on the capital charge. The other was Mrs. Deady. When eleven o'clock struck, she expected to hear every moment the well-known footsteps of her spouse; but no! Half-past eleven—twelve struck—and Jem had not returned. At half-past twelve there was a peculiar scratching sound at the back-door, and Bess opened it and dragged Jem into her arms, whilst she poured into his face a fire of cross-questions.
"Ax me no questions an' I'll tell ye no lies," said Jem. "Have ye anythin' to ate?"
Bess had, in the shape of cold fat bacon. Jem set to hungrily.
"Would ye mind covering up the light in the front windy, Bess?" said Jem.
Bess did so promptly, all the while looking at her spouse in a distressed and puzzled manner.
"Jem," said she at length, "may the Lord forgive me if I'm wrong, but I think ye're quite sober."
Jem nodded. A knock came to the door. It was Lizzie.