“I say,” continued Ned, “in—the—name—of—G-o-o-d-ness—who was it—that took the liberty of murdhering you, dacent man?”
“Ned Corrigan,” I answered, giving his own name.
“Hem! God presarve us! Ned Corrigan!” he exclaimed. “What Ned, for there's two of them—is it myself or the other vagabone?”
“Yourself, you murderer!” I replied.
“Ho!” said Ned, getting quite stout, “is that you, neighbor? Come, now, walk out wid yourself out of that coffin, you vagabone you, whoever you are.”
“What do you mane, Ned, by spaking to it that-a-way?” the rest inquired.
“Hut,” said Ned, “it's some fellow or other that's playing a thrick upon us. Sure I never knew either act nor part of the murdher, nor of the murdherers; and you know, if it was anything of that nature, it couldn't tell me a lie, and me a Scapularian along wid axing it in God's name, with Father Feasthalagh's Latin.”
“Big tare-an'-ouns;” said the rest; “if we thought it was any man making fun of us, but we'd crop the ears off his head, to tache him to be joking!”
To tell the truth, when I heard this suggestion, I began to repent of my frolic; but I was determined to make another effort to finish the adventure creditably.
“Ned,” said they, “throw some of the holy water on us all, and in the name of St. Pether and the Blessed Virgin, we'll go down and examine it in a body.”