son of a gentleman residing near there; Jack Shea, who was afterwards transported for running away with Biddy Lawlor; Tim Cournane, who, by reason of being on his keeping, was privileged to carry a gun; Owen Connor, a march-of-intellect man, who wished to enlighten proctors by making them swallow their processes; and a number of other “good boys.”  The night began to “rain cats and dogs,” and there was no stirring out; so the cards were called for, a roaring fire was made down, and the whisky and ale began to flow.  After due observation, and several experiments, a space large enough for the big table, and free from the drop down, was discovered.  Here six persons, including Andy, Jack, Tim—­with his gun between his legs—­and Owen, sat to play for a pig’s head, of which the living owner, in the parlour below, testified, by frequent grunts, his displeasure at this unceremonious disposal of his property.

Card-playing is very thirsty, and the boys were anxious to keep out the wet; so that long before the pig’s head was decided, a messenger had been dispatched several times to Killarney, a distance of four English miles, for a pint of whisky each time.  The ale also went merrily round, until most of the men were quite stupid, their faces swoln, and their eyes red and heavy.  The contest at length was decided; but a quarrel about the skill of the respective parties succeeded, and threatened broken heads at one time.  At last Jack Shea swore they must have something to eat;——­him but he was starved with drink, and he must get some rashers somewhere or other.  Every one declared the same; and Paddy was ordered to cook some griskins forthwith.  Paddy was completely nonplussed:—­all the provisions were gone, and yet his guests were not to be trifled with.  He made a hundred excuses—­“’Twas late—­’twas dry now—­and there was nothing in the house; sure they ate and drank enough.”  But all in vain.  The ould sinner was threatened with instant death if he delayed.  So Paddy called a council of war in the parlour, consisting of his wife and himself.

“Agrah, Jillen, agrah, what will we do with these?  Is there any meat in the tub?  Where is the tongue?  If it was yours, Jillen, we’d give them enough of it; but I mane the cow’s.” (aside.)

“Sure the proctors got the tongue ere yesterday, and you know there an’t a bit in the tub.  Oh the murtherin villains! and I’ll engage ’twill be no good for us, after all my white bread and the whisky.  That it may pison ’em!”

“Amen!  Jillen; but don’t curse them.  After all, where’s the meat?  I’m sure that Andy will kill me if we don’t make it out any how;—­and he hasn’t a penny to pay for it.  You could drive the mail coach, Jillen, through his breeches pocket without jolting over a ha’penny.  Coming, coming; d’ye hear ’em?”

“Oh, they’ll murther us.  Sure if we had any of the tripe I sent yesterday to the gauger.”

“Eh!  What’s that you say?  I declare to God here’s Andy getting up.  We must do something. Thonom an dhiaoul, I have it.  Jillen run and bring me the leather breeches; run woman, alive!  Where’s the block and the hatchet?  Go up and tell ’em you’re putting down the pot.”