His attendant vagabond obeyed the order, and a large pitcher full of water was handed to the master, who heaved it upwards to his head and drank as audibly and nearly as much as a horse. Then holding his hands to receive the remaining contents of the pitcher, which his followers poured into his monstrous palms, he soused his face, which he afterwards wiped in a wisp of grass—the only towel of Jack's which was not then at the wash.
Having thus made his toilet, Big Jack went downstairs, and as soon as his great bull-head had disappeared beneath the trap, one of the men above said, “We'll have a shilloe soon, boys.”
And sure enough they did before long hear an extraordinary row. Jack first roared for Bridget, and no answer was returned; the call was repeated with as little effect, and at last a most tremendous roar was heard above, but not from a female voice. Jack was heard below, swearing like a trooper, and, in a minute or two, back he rushed “up-stairs” and began cursing his myrmidons most awfully, and foaming at the mouth with rage.
“What's the matther?” cried the men.
“Matther!” roared Jack; “oh, you 'tarnal villains! You're a purty set to carry off a girl for a man—a purty job you've made of it!”
“Arrah, didn't we bring her to you?”
“Her, indeed—bring her—much good what you brought is to me!”
“Tare an' ouns! what's the matther at all? We dunna what you mane!” shouted the men, returning rage for rage.
“Come down, and you'll see what's the matther,” said Jack, descending the ladder; and the men hastened after him.
He led the way to the further end of the cabin, where a small glimmering of light was permitted to enter from the top, and lifting a tattered piece of canvas, which served as a screen to the bed, he exclaimed, with a curse, “Look there, you blackguards!”