“I cannot leave you in danger,” said Reilly.
“You're mad,” replied the other. “Is it an ould beggar man they'd meddle with? Off with you, unless you wish to sleep in Sligo jail before mornin.”
Reilly, who felt too deeply the truth of what he said, bounded across the bank which enclosed the road on the right-hand side, and which, by the way, was a tolerably high one, but fortunately without bushes. In the meantime a voice cried out, “Who goes there? Stand at your peril, or you will have a dozen bullets in your carcass.”
Fergus advanced towards them, whilst they themselves approached him at a rapid pace, until they met. In a moment they were all about him.
“Come, my customer,” said their leader, “who and what are you? Quick—give an account of yourself.”
“A poor creature that's lookin' for my bit, sir, God help me.”
“What's your name?”
“One Paddy Brennan, sir, please your honor.”
“Ay—one Paddy Brennan (hiccough), and—and—one Paddy Brennan, where do you go of a Sunday?”
“I don't go out at all, sir, of a Sunda'; whenever I stop of a Saturday night I always stop until Monday mornin'.”