“Oh, Phelim,” she replied, bursting into tears, “long runs the fox, but he's cotch at last. My father's in gaol.”
Phelim's jaw dropped. “In gaol! Chorp an diouol, no!”
“It's thruth, Phelim. Curse upon this Whiteboy business, I wish it never had come into the counthry at all.”
“Sally, I must see him; you know I must. But tell me how it happened? Was it at home he was taken?”
“No; he was taken this mornin' in the market. I was wid him sellin' some chickens. What'll you and Sam Appleton do, Phelim?”
“Uz! Why, what danger is there to either Sim or me, you darlin'?”
“I'm sure, Phelim, I don't know; but he tould me, that if I was provided for, he'd be firm, an' take chance of his thrial. But, he says, poor man, that it 'ud break his heart to be thransported, lavin' me behind him wid' nobody to take care o' me.—He says, too, if anything 'ud make him stag, it's fear of the thrial goin' against himself; for, as he said to me, what 'ud become of you, Sally, if anything happened me?”
A fresh flood of tears followed this disclosure, and Phelim's face, which was certainly destined to undergo on that day many variations of aspect, became remarkably blank.
“Sally, you insinivator, I'll hould a thousand guineas you'd never guess what brought me here to-day?”
“Arrah, how could I, Phelim? To plan some thin' wid my fadher, maybe.”