"Rather! He's supposed to be the cleverest gun-runner in the south of Ireland."
"Ye may say so, an' he's a black-hearted son av Satan; he is that. He's owed me three pounds since St. Patrick's Day two years gone, and it's meself that's niver loikely to see the colour av it. Now I'd be glad to have ye take a rise out of that blackguard."
"Tell me where he's to be found."
"Has ye'r honour heard tell av a little fishing village be the name av Ballyoon betwixt here and Mizzen Head?"
"No, but I'll soon find it."
"Then it's there that Mahoney—may the divil get his sowl—has his headquarters. Many's the noight that he's crept up past Sherkin Island an' into Roaringwather Bay wid a cargo of rifles and ammunition."
"Then it's his regular port of call, so to speak?"
"Indade it is. Divil a wan, save the bhoys, suspect it, least av all the Rivinue people, and it's a nice little fortune Mike's been piling up for himself, so it is. More'n wance he's said to me, 'Pat Rossan,' he's said, 'ye're an old hand at the game. Phwy don't ye jine in wid me and the rist av the bhoys?' But I'm too old for that now, as I tould him, and I don't want to ind me days wid me back against a wall."
"Thanks very much, Mr. Rossan," said Lawless. "I'll see that you lose nothing by this."
"Indade I shall be glad av any little hilp ye can give me, sorr, for phwat wid submarines and restrictions there's moighty little profit to be got out of the fishing these days."