“'Faith then you wouldn't like to be where I was before I came here; that is, in a mud cabin, where I was giving the last rites to six people dying in the typhus fever.”
“Typhus!” exclaimed Moriarty, growing pale, and instinctively withdrawing his chair as far as he could from the padre beside whom he sat.
“Ay, typhus, sir; most inveterate typhus.”
“Gracious Heaven!” said Moriarty, rising, “how can you do such a dreadful thing as run the risk of bearing infection into society?”
“I thought soldiers were not afraid of anything,” said Father Phil, laughing at him; and the rest of the party joined in the merriment.
“Fairly hit, Moriarty,” said Dick.
“Nonsense,” said Moriarty; “when I spoke of danger, I meant such open danger as—in short, not such insidious lurking abomination as infection; for I contend that—”
“Say no more, Randal,” said Growling, “you're done!—Father Phil has floored you.”
“I deny it,” said Moriarty, warmly; but the more he denied it, the more every one laughed at him.
“You're more frightened than hurt, Moriarty,” said the Squire; “for the best of the joke is, Father Phil wasn't in contact with typhus at all, but was riding with me—and 'tis but a joke.”