"Phew!" ejaculated O'Grady with a doleful whistle; "Dick the devil! You are in nice hands! All up with us—up with us—
Up, up, up,
And here we go down, down, down, down, derry down!
Oh, murther!" and the spoon went faster than before. "Any one else?"
"Mister Bermingham."
"Bermingham!" exclaimed O'Grady.
"A cle'gyman, I think," drawled Furlong.
"Bermingham!" reiterated O'Grady. "What business has he there, and be ——!" O'Grady swallowed a curse when he remembered he was a clergyman. "The enemy's camp—not his principles! Oh, Bermingham, Bermingham,—Brimmagem, Brummagem, Sheffield, Wolverhampton—Murther! Any one else? Was Durfy there?"
"No," said Furlong; "but there was an odd pe'son, whose name wymes to his—as you seem fond of wymes, Mister O'Gwady."
"What!" said O'Grady, quickly, and fixing his eyes on Furlong; "Murphy?"