“What Age are you in?”
“The end of the fifth.”
“All right,” said Bartle, aloud; “now, boys,” he whispered to his own party, “we must tell them good-humoredly to pass on—that this is a runaway—jist a girl we're bringin' aff wid us, an' to hould a hard cheek (*To keep it secret) about it. You know we'd do as much for them.”
Both parties now met, the strangers consisting of about twenty men.
“Well, boys,” said the latter, “what's the fun?”
“Devil a thing but a girl we're helpin' a boy to take away. What's your own sport?”
“Begorra, we wor in luck to-night; we got as party a double-barrelled gun as ever you seen, an' a case of murdherin' fine—pistols.”
“Success, ould heart! that's right; we'll be able to stand a tug whin the 'Day' comes.”
“Which of you is takin' away the girl, boys?” inquired one of the strangers.
“Begad, Bartle Flanagan, since there's no use in hidin' it, when we're all as we ought to be.”