“Ha!” said Darby, laying his finger along; his nose, as he spoke to one of his associates, “I smell an alias there.  Good; first Corbet and then Dunphy.  What do you call that?  That chap is one of the connection.  Take the message, Skipton; mark him well, and let him be here, if possible, before we bring the prisoner to Sir Thomas Gourlay’s.”

The fellow winked in reply, and approaching the priest, asked,

“What message have you to send, Mr. Finnerty?”

“Tell him—­but stay; oblige me with a slip of paper and a pen, I will write it down.”

“Yes, that’s better,” said Darby.  “Nothing like black and white, you know,” he added, aside to Skipton.

Father M’Mahon then wrote down his office only; simply saying, “The parish priest of Ballytrain wishes to see Anthony Dunphy as soon as he can come to him.”

This description of himself excited roars of laughter throughout the office; nor could the good-natured priest himself help smiling at the ludicrous contrast between his real character and that which had been affixed upon him.

“Confound me,” said Darby, “but that’s the best alias I have heard this many a day.  It’s as good as Tom Green’s that was hanged, and who always stuck to his name, no matter how often he changed it.  At one time it was Ivy, at another Laurel, at another Yew, and so on, poor fellow, until he swung.”  Skipton, the messenger, took the slip of paper with high glee, and proceeded on his embassy to Constitution Hill.

He had scarcely been gone, when a tumult reached their ears from outside, in which one voice was heard considerably louder and deeper than the rest; and almost immediately afterwards an old acquaintance of the reader’s, to wit, the worthy student, Ambrose Gray, in a very respectable state of intoxication, made his appearance, charged with drunkenness, riot, and a blushing reluctance to pay his tavern reckoning.  Mr. Gray was dragged in at very little expense of ceremony, it must be confessed, but with some prospective damage to his tailor, his clothes having received considerable abrasions in the scuffle, as well as his complexion, which was beautifully variegated with tints of black, blue, and yellow.

“Well, Mr. Gray,” said Darby, “back once more I see?  Why, you couldn’t live without us, I think.  What’s this now?”

“A deficiency of assets, most potent,” replied Gray, with a hiccough—­“unable to meet a rascally tavern reckoning;” and as Mr. Gray spoke he thrust his tongue into his cheek, intimating by this significant act his high respect for Mr. Darby.

“You had better remember, sir, that you are addressing the senior officer here,” said the latter, highly offended.

“Most potent, grave, and reverend senior, I don’t forget it; nor that the grand senior can become a most gentlemanly ruffian whenever he chooses.  No, senior, I respect your ruffianship, and your ruffianship ought to respect me; for well you wot that many a time before now I’ve greased that absorbing palm of yours.”