Hycy entered in a few moments afterwards, and, after the usual greetings, sat down by the fire.

“De night’s could,” said Phats, resuming his brogue; “but here,” he added, pulling out a bottle of whiskey, “is something to warm de blood in us.  Will you thry it, Meeisther Hycy?”

“By-and-by—­not now; but help yourselves.”

“When did you see Miss Kathleen, Masther Hycy,” asked Kate.

“You mean Miss Kathleen the Proud?” he replied—­“my Lady Dignity—­I have a crow to pluck with her.”

“What crow have you to pluck wid her?” asked Kate, fiercely.  “You’ll pluck no crow wid her, or, if you do, I’ll find a bag to hould the fedhers—­mind that.”

“No, no,” said Philip; “whatever’s to be done, she must come to no harm.”

“Why, the crow I have to pluck with her, Mrs. Hogan, is—­let me see—­why—­to—­to marry her—­to bind her in the bands of holy wedlock; and you know, when I do, I’m to give you all a house and place free gratis for nothing during your lives—­that’s what I pledge myself to do, and not a rope to hang yourselves, worthy gentlemen, as Finigan would say.  I pass over the fact,” he proceeded, laughing, “of the peculiar intimacy which, on a certain occasion, was established between Jemmy, the gentleman’s old oak drawers, and your wrenching-irons; however, that is not the matter at present, and I am somewhat in a hurry.”

“You heard,” said Bat, “that Bryan M’Mahon has lost his mother?”

“I did,” said the other; “poor orphan lad, I pity him.”

“We know you do,” said Bat, with a vindictive but approving sneer.

“I assure you,” continued Hycy, “I wish the young man well.”

“Durin’ der lives,” repeated Phats, who had evidently been pondering over Hycy’s promised gift to the Hogans;—­“throth,” he observed with a grin, “dere may be something under dat too.  Ay! an’ she wishes Bryan M’Mahon well,” he exclaimed, raising his red eyebrows.

“Shiss,” replied Hycy, mimicking him, “her does.”

“But you must have de still-house nowhere but in Ahadarra for alls dat.”

“For alls dats” replied the other.  “Dat will do den,” said Phats, composedly.  “Enough of this,” said Hycy.  “Now, Phats, have you examined and pitched upon the place?”

“Well, then,” replied Phats, speaking in his natural manner, “I have; an’ a betther spot isn’t in Europe than there is undher the hip of Cullamore.  But do you know how Roger Cooke sarved Adam Blakely of Glencuil?”

“Perfectly well,” replied Hycy, “he ruined him.”

“But we don’t know it,” said Ned; “how was it, Teddy?”

“Why, he set up a still on his property—­an’ you know Adam owns the whole townland, jist as Bryan M’Mahon does Ahadarra—­an’ afther three or four runnin she gets a bloody scoundrel to inform upon Adam, as if it was him an’ not himself that had the still.  Clinton the gauger—­may the devil break his neck at any rate!—­an’ the redcoats—­came and found all right, Still, Head, and Worm.”