This was immediately supplied to him, and the first thing he did was to stick it on his forehead—although there had been brass enough there before—to which it appeared to have been glued; after a space he took it off and placed it in the palm of his right hand, which he closed, and then, extending both his hands, shut, asked those about him in which hand it was. Of course they all said in the right; but, upon Jack's opening the said hand, there was no halfpenny there.
In this way they discussed a case of life or death, until another knock came, which “knock” received the same answer as before.
“Faith,” said a powerful-looking farmer from near the town of Boyle—the very picture of health, “if they don't soon let us out I'll get sick. It's I that always does the sickness for the jury when we're kept in too long.”
“Why, then, Billy Bradley,” asked one of them, “how could you, of all men living, sham sickness on a doctor?”
“Because,” said Billy, with a grin, “I'm beginning to feel a divarsion of blood to the head, for want of a beefsteak and a pot o' porther. My father and grandfather both died of a divarsion of blood to the head.”
“I rather think,” observed another, “that they died by taking their divarsion at the beefsteak and the pot of porter.”
“No matther,” said Billy, “they died at all events, and so will we all, plaise God.”
“Gome,” said one of them, “there is Jack Brereton and his cane—let us come to business. What do you say, Jack, as to the prisoner?”
Jack at the time had the aforesaid cane between his legs, over which he was bent like a bow, with the head of it in his mouth.
“Are you all agreed?” asked Jack.