“Of course I will not, Mr. Purcel; not a bit of it.  I will ride—­armed, of course—­past Philpot’s corner this very day, at half-past three o’clock; that is all I say.”

“Well all I can say,” returned Alick, “is that you are a fearfully-determined man, sir.”

“I grant that, Alick, I know I am; but then it is in my nature.  I was born with it—­I was born with it.  Any news?”

“Why not much, sir.  That scoundrel, Buck English, has written to my father, notwithstanding all that happened, to know if he will consent to let Julia marry him.  He says in his letter that, although he may be put off with a refusal now, he will take good care that he shan’t be unsuccessful the next time he asks her.”

“Does nobody, or can nobody find out how that scoundrel—­” here the valorous magistrate’s voice sank as if instinctively, and he gave a cautious glance about him at the same time, but seeing none but themselves, present he resumed his courage—­“how that, rascal finds manes to cut the figure he-does?”

“I believe not,” replied the other; “but for my part, I am often disposed to look upon the man as mad; yet still the puzzle is to think how he lives in such buck style—­the vagabond.  He certainly is involved in some-mystery, for every one you meet or talk to is afraid of him.”

“No, not every one, Alick; come, come, my boy, every general rule has an exception; whisper—­I could name you one who is not afraid of him”—­and this he said in a jocular tone—­“I only wish,” he added, raising his voice with more confidence, “that I could get my thumb upon him, I would—­”

He was here interrupted by a loud but mellow voice, which rang cheerfully with the following words:—­

“I’m the rantin’ Cannie Soogah.”

“Ha! the Jolly Pedlar!  Throw open the window, Fergus, till we have a chat with him.  Well, my rantin’ Cannie Soogah, how are you?”

“Faith, your honor, I’m jist betwixt and between, as they say—­naither betther nor worse, but mixed middlin’, like the praties in harvest.  However, it’s good to be any way at all in these times; so thank God my head’s on my body still.”

“Cannie,” said Fergus, “we were just-talking of Buck English.  Mr. Purcel here-says that there’s some mystery about him; for nobody knows how he lives, and every one almost is afraid of him.  My Father, however, denies that every one is afraid of him.”

“Buck English!” exclaimed the pedlar.  “Mr. O’Driscol, darlin’, what did your honor say about him?”

“Why, I—­I—­a-hem—­I wished to have the pleasure, Cannie, of—­of—­shaking hands, with the honest fellow; was not that it, Alick?”

“Hands, or thumbs, or something that way,” replied Alick; “threatening him, as it were.”

“Shaking hands, upon honor, Alick—­thumb to thumb, you know.”

“Well, Mr. O’Driscol, you’re well known! to have more o’ the divil than the man in you—­beggin’ your pardon, sir, for the freedoms, I’m takin’—­but it’s all for your own good I’m doin’ it.  Have you e’re a mouse-hole about your place, sir?”