“Well, I can tell you one thing before you go, Connor—Bartle Flanagan's well watched. If he has been guilty—if—derry downs, who doubts it'?—well never mind; I'll hould a trifle we get him to show the cloven foot, and condemn himself yet.”
“The villain,” said Connor, “will be too deep—too polished for you.”
“Ten to one he's not. Do you know what we've found out since this business?”
“No.”
“Why, the divil resave the squig of punch, whiskey, or liquor of any sort or size he'll allow to pass the lips of him. Now, Connor, aren't you up to the cunnin' villainy of the thraitor in that maynewvre?”
“I am, Nogher; I see his design in it. He is afeard if he got drunk that he wouldn't be able to keep his own secret.”
“Ah, then, by the holy Nelly, we'll sleep him yet, or he'll look sharp. Never you mind him, Connor.”
“Nogher! stop,” said Connor, almost angrily, “stop; what do you mane by them last words?”
“Divil a much; it's about the blaggard I'm spakin'; he'll be ped, I can tell you. There's a few friends of yours that intinds, some o' these nights, to open a gusset under one of his ears only; the divil a thing more.”
“What! to take the unhappy man's life—to murdher him?”