“Be the pins,” which was George’s usual oath, “be the pins, Mickey, it’s over with us—Pentland’s here, for there’s the sign.”
Mickey paused for a moment and listened very gravely; then squirting out a tobacco spittle, “Take it aisy,” said he; “I have half a dozen fires about the hills, any one as like this as your right hand is to your left. I didn’t spare trouble, for I knew that if we’d get over this day, we’d be out of his power.”
“Well, my good lad,” said Pentland, addressing the vidette, “what’s this fire for?”
“What is it for, is it?”
“Yes; if you don’t let me know instantly, I’ll blow your brains out, and get you hanged and transported afterwards.” This he said with a thundering voice, cocking a large horse pistol at the same time.
“Why, sir,” said the boy, “it’s watchin’ a still I am; but be the hole o’ my coat if you tell upon me, it’s broilin’ upon these coals I’ll be soon.”
“Where is the still then? An’ the still-house, where is it?”
“Oh, begorra, as to where the still or still-house is, they wouldn’t tell me that.”
“Why, sirra, didn’t you say this moment you were watching a still?”