“More power to him in that,” said Philip; “if he makes a beggarman of him he may depend on us to the back-bone.”
“Have no hand in injurin' Bryan M'Mahon,” said Kate. “Keep him from marryin' Kathleen if you like, or if you can; but, if you're wise, don't injure the boy.”
“Why so?” asked Philip.
“That's nothing to you,” she replied; “for a raison I have; and mark me, I warn you not to do so or it'll be worse for you.”
“Why, who are we afraid of, barrin Hycy himself?”
“It's no matther; there's them livin' could make you afeard, an' maybe will, too, if you injure that boy.”
“I'd just knock him on the head,” replied the ferocious ruffian, “as soon as I would a mad dog.”
“Whisht,” said Phats, “here's Hycy; don't you hear his foot?”
Hycy entered in a few moments afterwards, and, after the usual greetings, sat down by the fire.
“De night's could,” said Phats, resuming his brogue; “but here,” he added, pulling out a bottle of whiskey, “is something to warm de blood in us. Will you thry it, Meeisther Hycy?”