“Now,” said the other, raising the blinds and afterwards opening the door, “you may go about your business, and mark me, Mr Hourigan—­”

“I do, sir,” replied the other, bolting out “oh, God knows I do—­you have marked me, Misther Purcel, and I will mark you, sir—­for—­” he added muttering in a low voice to those who stood about him—­“one good turn desarves another, anyhow.”

We shall not now dwell upon the comments which young Purcel’s violence drew from the defaulters on their way home.  Our reader, however, may easily imagine them, and form for themselves a presentiment of the length to which “the tithe insurrection,” as they termed it, was likely to proceed throughout the country at large, with the exception only of the northern provinces.

CHAPTER V.—­A Hang-Choice Shot—­The “Garrison” on Short Commons.

When our merry friend the pedlar left the proctor’s parlor, he proceeded at a brisk pace in the direction of the highway, which, however, was not less than three-quarters of a mile from Longshot Lodge, which was the name Purcel had given to his residence.  He had only got clear of the offices, however, and was passing the garden wall, which ran between him and the proctor’s whole premises, when he was arrested by Mogue Moylan.

“Ah! merry Mogue,” exclaimed the pedlar, ironically, “I was missin’ you.  Where were you, my cherub?”

“I was in the barn ‘ithin,” replied Mogue, “just offerin’ up a little pathernavy for the protection o’ this house and place, and of the daicent, kind-hearted peeople that’s in it.”

“An’, as a joint prayer, they say, is worth ten single ones, I suppose,” returned the pedlar,—­laying his fingers on his lips and winking—­“you had—­ahem—­you understand?”

“No, thin,” replied Mogue, brightening up with excessive vanity, “may I be happy if I do!”

“Why, our fair friend, Letty Lenehan—­begad, Mogue, she’s a purty girl that—­says she to herself,” proceeded the pedlar; “for I don’t think she knew or thought I heard her—­’If I thought he would like these rib-bons, I’d buy them for myself.’  ‘Who do you mane, acushla?’ says I, whisperin’ to her.  ‘Who,’ says she, ’but—­but Mogue himself—­only honor bright, Mr. Magrath’ says she, ‘sure you wouldn’t betray me?’ ‘Honor bright again,’ says I, ‘I’m not the stuff a traitor’s made of;’ and so you see we both laughed heartily, bekaise we understood one another.  Mogue,” proceeded the other, “will you answer me the truth in one thing?”

“If I can I will, Misther Magrath.

“I know ye will, bekaise you can,” replied, the pedlar; “how do you come round the girls at all? how do you make them fond o’ you?  I want you to tell me that, if it’s not a family saicret.”

Mogue gravely drew his fingers and thumb down his thin yellow jaws, until they met under his chin, and replied—­