O'Dwyer, the merry Fenian, called next day.
"Give us a dhrink, brother-officers," said he, "I'm wake wid laughter."
We asked what had happened.
"Ye know that herrin'-gutted bush-ranger over yonder? He'd stale the milk out of your tea, he would, be the same token. Well, last night he got vicious and took a crack at my lines. I had rayson to suspect he'd be afther tryin' somethin' on, so I laid for him. I planted a certain mule where he could stale it an' guarded the rest four deep. Begob, will ye believe me, but he fell into the thrap head-first—the poor simple divil."
"But he got your mule," said Albert Edward, perplexed.
"Shure an' he did, you bet he did—he got old Lyddite."
Albert Edward and I were still puzzled.
"Very high explosive—hence name," O'Dwyer explained.
"Dear hearrts," he went on, "he's got my stunt mule, my family assassin! That long-ear has twenty-three casualties to his credit, including a Brigadier. I have to twitch him to harness him, side-line him to groom him, throw him to clip him, and dhrug him to get him shod. Perceive the jest now? Esteemed comrade Monk is afther pinchin' an infallable packet o' sudden death, an' he don't know it—yet."
"What's the next move?" I inquired.