“No, Jemmy, what is it?” asked John.
“Why, that Darby Hourigan is very ill,” he replied, with mock gravity.
“No thanks for your information, Jemmy,” replied the other; “if you told us something of more interest we might thank you.”
“Never mind him, gintlemen,” replied his companion, “there's nothing wrong wid Darby Horaigan, barrin' that he occasionally rubs himself where he's not itching, but there's worse news than that before you.”
“What is it, then?” asked Alick; “if you know it, let us hear it, and don't stand humming and hawing as if you were afraid to speak.”
“Faith, an' it's no wondher I would, sir, when it's to tell you that you'll find your father a murdhered corpse at home before you.”
“Great God! what do you mean, sir? asked John.
“Why, gintlemen, it seems that himself an' Parson Turbot wor both shot in the parsonage garden to-day. The parson's takin' his rest in his own house, but your father's body was brought home upon the car. The bullet entered your worthy father's breeches' pocket, cut through a sheaf of notes that he had to pay the parson his tides wid, and from that it went on——”
Human patience could not endure the ill-suppressed and heartless satisfaction with which the fellow was about to enter into the details, and accordingly, ere he had time to proceed further, John Purcel turning a hunting-whip, loaded for self-defense, left him sprawling on the earth.
“Now, you ill-conditioned scoundrel,” he exclaimed, “whether he is murdered or not, take that for your information. Alick, lay on Hacket there, you are the nearest to him,” he added, addressing his brother.