—­Something like an Elopement.

On the evening of the same day the stranger desired Paudeen Gair to take a place for him in the “Fly,” which was to return to Dublin on that night.  He had been furnished with a letter from Father M’Mahon, to whom he had, in Mr. Birney’s, fully disclosed his name and objects.  He felt anxious, however, to engage some trustworthy servant or attendant, on whose integrity he could fully rely, knowing, or at least apprehending, that he might be placed in circumstances where he could not himself act openly and freely without incurring suspicion or observation.  Paudeen, however, or, as we shall call him in future, Pat Sharpe, had promised to procure a person of the strictest honesty, in whom every confidence could be placed.  This man’s name, or rather his nickname, was Dandy Dulcimer, an epithet bestowed upon him in consequence of the easy and strolling life he led, supporting himself, as he passed from place to place, by his performances upon that simple but pleasing instrument.

“Pat,” said the stranger in the course of the evening, “have you succeeded in procuring me this cousin of yours?” for in that relation he stood to Pat.

“I expect him here every minute, sir,” replied Pat; “and there’s one thing I’ll lay down my life on—­you may trust him as you would any one of the twelve apostles—­barring that blackguard Judas.  Take St. Pettier, or St. Paul, or any of the dacent apostles, and the divil a one of them honester than Dandy.  Not that he’s a saint like them either, or much overburdened with religion, poor fellow; as for honesty and truth—­divil a greater liar ever walked in the mane time; but, by truth, I mane truth to you, and to any one that employs him—­augh, by my soul, he’s the flower of a boy.”

“He won’t bring his dulcimer with him, I hope.”

“Won’t he, indeed?  Be me sowl, sir, you might as well separate sowl and body, as take Dandy from his dulcimer.  Like the two sides of a scissors, the one’s of no use widout the other.  They must go together, or Dandy could never cut his way through the world by any chance.  Hello! here he is.  I hear his voice in the hall below.”

“Bring him up, Pat,” said the stranger; “I must see and speak to him; because if I feel that he won’t suit me, I will have nothing to do with him.”

Dandy immediately entered, with his dulcimer slung like a peddler’s bos at his side, and with a comic movement of respect, which no presence or position could check, he made a bow to the stranger, that forced him to smile in spite of himself.

“You seem a droll fellow,” said the stranger.  “Are you fond of truth?”

“Hem!  Why, yes, sir.  I spare it as much as I can.  I don’t treat it as an everyday concern.  We had a neighbor once, a widow M’Cormick, who was rather penurious, and whenever she saw her servants buttering their bread too thickly, she used to whisper to them in a confidential way, ‘Ahagur, the thinner you spread it the further it will go.’  Hem!  However, I must confess that once or twice a year I draw on it by way of novelty, that is, on set days or bonfire nights; and I hope, sir, you’ll admit that that’s treating it with respect.”