“I thought you might be asleep, Barny.”
“Not when you bid me wake, sir; and there's a nice fire ready for you, and as fine a dhrop o' potteen as ever tickled your tongue, sir.”
“You're the lad, Barny!—good fellow—I'll be back with you by-and-by;” and off whipped Dick again.
After going about a quarter of a mile further, he pulled up, alighted with Murphy from the gig, unharnessed the little black mare, and then overturned the gig into the ditch.
“That's as natural as life,” said Dick.
“What an escape of my neck I've had!” said Murphy.
“Are you much hurt?” said Dick.
“A trifle lame only,” said Murphy, laughing and limping.
“There was a great boccagh [Footnote: Lame beggar.] lost in you, Murphy. Wait; let me rub a handful of mud on your face—there—you have a very upset look, 'pon my soul,” said Dick, as he flashed the light of his lantern on him for a moment, and laughed at Murphy scooping the mud out of his eye, where Dick had purposely planted it.
“Devil take you,” said Murtough; “that's too natural.”