“An' what name does he go by now?” she asked.
“By the name of Phil Hart; and remember when there's any stranger present, you're never to call him anything else—but above all things, and upon the peril of your life, never call him Mark Ratigan.”
“And do you think,” replied his wife, “that I won't take care not to do it? But, Frank, tell me what was Mogue Moylan doin' here the night before last?”
“Only to let me know that he and a Misthor M'Carthy—a great friend of his and of two good creatures—Magistrate Driscol and Procthor Purcel—wor to come out shootin' on the mountains to-day and to ax if I would prevent them.”
“An' did you give them lave?” she inquired.
A very peculiar expression passed over the dark grim features of her husband. “Did I give them lave?” he replied; “well, indeed, you may take your davy, I did. Why would I refuse a dacent gintleman, and a friend of Mogue Moylan's lave to shoot? Poor dacent Mogue, too, that loves thruth and religion so well—ha! ha! ha!—whisht!—here's some one.”
The words were scarcely uttered, when our friends, M'Carthy and Mogue, made their appearance in the caretaker's house, both evidently in a fatigued state, especially M'Carthy, who had not been so well accustomed to travel over mountain scenery as his companion.
“Well, blessed be God that we have got the roof of a house over us at last!” exclaimed Mogue. “Frank Finnerty, how are you? an' Vread, achora, not forgettin' you—my hand to you both, but we're lost—especially this gentleman, Mr. M'Carthy—a great friend of Mr. O'Driscol's and Procthor Parcel's—but a betther man than either o' them, I hope.”
“I am fairly knocked up, I admit,” said M'Carthy—“in fact, I am more jaded than I ever was in my life.”
“Take a chair, sir,” said Finnerty; “you are welcome at all events, and I am glad to see you, or any friend of Mogue's; take this chair, sir—and—here, Mogue, do you take a stool; you must be both in a sad state, sure enough.”