“And why take the mountain road?’’
“Simply, because it was the shortest.”
The quondam whipper gave a long and significant whistle; while his companion started up and left the hut abruptly, although the Leonora of the smugglers’ hovel called loudly after him, that “the steaks were cooling.”
He was but a brief space absent; and returned accompanied by an old grey-headed, blear-eyed, and besotted wretch, who instantly commenced a rigid scrutiny of my features. From the first moment, he expressed doubt and disappointment.
“What the devil!” said the ruffian who had brought him to examine me—“what are you shaking your head at, old boy?”
“Nothing; but you have bagged the wrong fox,” replied the stranger. “A nice job you have made of it, Murty Doolan!”
“Why, is’nt that Parker the gauger?”
“Parker, the devil!” rejoined the old man. “It’s as much Parker as it is my grandmother. Ye blind beggar, this chap has a straight eye, and Parker could squint through a bugle horn. He! he! he!” and he chuckled at his Own wit; “wait till somebody hears it. All, this comes of not taking my advice—this comes of employing strangers.”
“Well,” said the whipper, “there’s no help for spilt milk. What’s to be done, Gaffer? Can’t we grab the right one yet?”
“Ay, like enough, after Sullivan is hanged; for nothing can save him now. What will ye do with this lad?” and he nodded carelessly at me.