“Oh, tut! tut! nonsense, Sergeant,” was the physician’s brisk response.  “You forget.  I’ve taken those same chances before, too, and, by Jove!  I can take ’em again!  All things considered,” he added significantly, “seems to me—­er—­perhaps just as well I should be on hand.”

Yorke and Redmond exchanged rueful grins.  “The old sport!” quoth the latter admiringly.  “Damme, but I must say the Doc’s game!”

“It’s the old ’ex-service spirit’,” said Yorke quietly, “rum thing!  Always seems to crop out, somehow, when there’s real trouble on hand.”

Nonchalantly puffing a huge cigar, the object of their remarks presently strolled back into the room, followed by the sergeant.  “Behould th’ ‘last coort av appeal,’ Docthor,” began Slavin majestically.  With a whimsical grin he indicated his subordinates.  “Bhoys,” he explained, “contrairy tu my wishes, th’ Docthor insists on comin’ wid us this night.  Now fwhat yez know ’bout that?”

“Tried to shake me!” supplemented that gentleman tersely, waving his cigar at the last speaker.  “What’s this court’s ruling?”

A stern smile flitted over Yorke’s high-bred features.  “Appeal sustained,” he announced decisively, “eh, Reddy?”

For answer, his comrade arose and silently wrung the doctor’s hand; then, without show of emotion, he resumed his seat and likewise his cleaning operations.  Yorke, as silently, duplicated his comrade’s actions.  The ex-Naval surgeon said nothing; but his eyes glistened strangely as he dropped into an easy chair and proceeded to envelope himself in a cloud of smoke,

Suddenly the nasal voice of the teamster, Lanky Jones, made itself heard.  “How ’bout me?” he drawled, “ain’t I in on this, too?  I kin look after th’ hawsses, anyways, fur yeh!”

“Arrah thin! hark tu um?” said Slavin, in mock despair.  “Docthor, ’tis a bad example ye’re setting All right, thin, Lanky, ye shall come, an’ ye wish ut.  An’ as man tu man—­I thank ye!  We will all go a ‘moonlightin’ tugither.  Eyah!” he resumed reminiscently, “many’s th’ toime I mind me ould father—­God rist him!—­tellin’ th’ tales av thim days, whin times was harrd in Oireland, an’ rints wint up an’ th’ pore was dhriven well-nigh desprit.  How him an’ his blood-cousin, Tim Moriarty, lay wan night for an’ ould rapparee av a landlord, who’d evicted pore Tim out av house an’ home.  Tim had an’ ould blundherbuss, all loaded up wid bits av nales an’ screws an’ such-like, wid a terribul big charrge av powther behint ut.  Four solid hours did they wait for um—­forninst a hedge on th’ road he had tu come home by, from Ballymeen Fair.

“By an’ by they hears um a-comin . . . a-hollerin’ an’ laughin’ tu umsilf, an’ roarin’ an’ singin’ ‘Th’ Jug av Potheen.’  Full av ut, tu, by token av th’ voice av um.  Tim makes all ready wid th’ blundherbuss.  All av a suddint tho’, th’ tchune shtops, an’ tho’ they waits for um for quite a toime, he niver shows up.  By an’ by they gets fed up wid lyin’ belly-down in th’ soakin’ rain.  ‘H-mm! mighty quare!’ sez me father, ’I wonder fwhat’s happened tu th’ pore ould ginthleman?’ ’Let us go luk for um?’ sez Tim, wid blood in his oi, ‘’tis may be he’s on’y shtoppin’ tu take another dhrink out av th’ jug.’