“So, up th’ road they goes a piece, till they comes tu a bog at th’ side av ut.  An’ there they finds um—­head-first shtuck in th’ bog—­just th’ tu feet av um shtickin’ out an’ which boots Tim sez he can swear tu.  ‘Begorrah!’ sez me father, ‘that accounts for th’ tchune shtoppin’ so suddint!  Let us luk for th’ jug?’ Well, they hunts around for th’ jug awhile, but all they finds is his ould caubeen.  So they shtuck that on wan of his feet, an’ Tim, he pins th’ warrant av evictmint tu ut, currsin’ somethin’ fierce th’ whiles bekase he was done out av getthin’ a shot at the ‘ould rapparee wid th’ blundherbuss.”

Slavin shook his head slowly at the conclusion of the story.  “Eyah!” he said wistfully, “many’s th’ toime have I heard me father tell that same tale.  They must have been shtirrin’ times, thim!” In characteristic fashion his mood suddenly changed.  His face hardened, as with upraised hand he silenced the burst of laughter he had provoked from his hearers.  “Ginthlemen!” he resumed quietly, “we’re none av us cowards here, but—­no need tu remind yu’—­fwhat sort av a man we are goin’ up against this night.”

Unconsciously he drew himself up, with an air of simple, rugged dignity that well became his grim visage and powerful frame.  In that hour of impending danger the brave, true, kindly heart of the man stood revealed—­a personality which endeared him to Yorke and Redmond beyond any ties of friendship they had known.

Slowly he repeated, “we are none av us cowards here, but—­remimber Larry Blake, an’ that pore hobo shtiff back in th’ shed there.  An’ remimber thim dogs this mornin’.  We du not want tu undherrate um.  We du not want tu cop ut like did Wilde, whin he wint tu arrest Charcoal; or Colebrook, whin he tackled Almighty Voice.  Maybe he’ll just come a-yawnin’ tu th’ dhure, wid th’ dhrawlin’ English spache av um, sayin’ ‘Well, bhoys, an’ fwhat’s doin’?’ An’ yet again—­may be he’s all nerves afther th’ bad break he made in front av us this mornin’—­expectin’ us—­eyah!—­waithin’, watchin’ belike, wid his gun in his fisht.  Luk at th’ way he acted afther his gun play—­leery as hell. . . .”

“Yes!” said Yorke thoughtfully, “egad! there was something darned queer in the way he acted, all right.  Guess we’d better take carbines along, eh, Burke? . . . in case we get let in for a man hunt.  For all we know, he may have beat it already.  Another thing—­he may start in bucking us about not having a warrant—­just to gain time?”

Slavin met the other’s suggestion with a grim nod of acquiescence.  “Shure! we’ll take thim,” he said, “but”—­his jaw set ruthlessly—­“if I wanst get my grub-hooks on um . . . why! ’tis all up!—­carbines, or no carbines—­warrant or no warrant.  Section thirty av th’ Code covers th’ warrant bizness—­in a case like this, anyways.  Come on, thin, bhoys, saddle up!  An’ Lanky!—­yu give me a hand wid th’ team! we must be getthin’!”