The fish was taking it quietly—il faut reculer pour mieux sauter—preparing for another effort. Percy Bingham wiped the perspiration from his brow; his work was cut out for him.
“Now’s the time for a dart o’ sperrits,” said Kerrigan, dexterously shipping his oars and unfastening the lid of the hamper. “Ye won’t, yer honner?”—Bingham had expressed dissent. “Well, begorra, here’s luck, an’ that it may be good,” pouring out a dropsied glassful and tossing it off. “That’s shupayrior,” with a smack; “its warmin’ me stomick like a bonfire! Whisht!” he added in an alarmed whisper, “who the dickens is this is comin’ along the road?”
A mail phaeton, attached to a pair of spanking grays, came swiftly and silently along the grass-grown causeway. An elderly, aristocratic-looking man was driving, and beside him sat a young and beautiful girl. “Be the hokey! we’re bet; it’s ould Miles Joyce himself,” cried Lanty Kerrigan.
“Is that Miss Joyce, the young lady to whom you took the box last night?” asked Percy somewhat eagerly.
“Och wirra! wirra! to be shure it is, an’ that same box is our only chance now.”
“Pull nearer shore, Lanty,” said the young officer, who was very anxious for a stare. “Good style,” he muttered. “Tight head, delicious plaits, Regent Street hat—ma foi! who would think of meeting anything like this in a devil’s punchbowl? Pull into shore, man,” he testily cried.
“Shure I’m pullin’ me level best.”
“Not that shore, you idiot. Pull for the carriage.” Lanty was straining in the opposite direction.
“Are ye mad, sir?” whispered Kerrigan. “I wudn’t face ould Joyce this blessed minit for a crock o’ goold.”
The carriage drew up, and the driver in an authoritative voice shouted: “Bring that boat here.”