“Blood alive, masther, but that’s great spakin’—­begar, a judge couldn’t come up to you; but in throth, sir, I’d be long sarry to throuble you; only he’s away fifteen year, and I wouldn’t thrust it to another; and the corplar that commands the ridgment would regard your handwrite and your inditin’.”

“Don’t, ma’am, plade the smallest taste of apology.”

“Eagh?”

“I’m happy that I can sarve you, ma’am.”

“Musha, long life to you, masther, for that same, any how—­but it’s yourself that’s deep in the larnin’ and the langridges; the Lord incrase yer knowledge—­sure, an’ we all want his blessin’, you know.”

“Home, is id?  Start, boys, off—­chase him, lie into him—­asy, curse yez, take time gettin’ out:  that’s it—­keep to him—­don’t wait for me; take care, you little spalpeens, or you’ll brake your bones, so you will:  blow the dust of this road, I can’t see my way in.”

THE RETURN.

“Well, boys, you’ve been at it—­here’s swelled faces and bloody noses.  What blackened your eye, Callaghan?  You’re a purty prime ministher, ye boxing blackguard, you:  I left you to keep pace among these factions, and you’ve kicked up a purty dust.  What blackened your eye—­eh?—­”

“I’ll tell you, sir, whin I come in, if you plase.”

“Ho, you vagabones, this is the ould work of the faction between the Bradys and the Callaghans—­bastin’ one another; but, by my sowl, I’ll baste you all through other.  You don’t want to go out, Callaghan.  You had fine work here since; there’s a dead silence now; but I’ll pay you presently.  Here, Duggan, go out wid Callaghan, and see that you bring him back in less than no time.  It’s not enough for your fathers and brothers to be at it, who have a right to fight, but you must battle betune you—­have your field days itself!”

(Duggan returns)—­“Hoo—­hoo—­sir, my nose.  Oh, murdher sheery, my nose is broked!”

“Blow your nose, you spalpeen you—­Where’s Callaghan?”

“Oh, sir, bad luck to him every day he rises out of his bed; he got a stone in his fist, too, that he hot me a pelt on the nose wid, and then made off home.”

“Home is id?  Start, boys, off—­chase him, lie into him—­azy, curse yez, take time gettin out; that’s it—­keep to him—­don’t wait for me; take care you little salpeens or you’ll brake your bones, so you will:  blow the dust of this road, I can’t see my way in it.”

“Oh! murdher, Jem, agra, my knee’s out’ o’ joint.”

“My elbow’s smashed, Paddy.  Bad luck to him—­the devil fly away wid him—­oh! ha I ha!—­oh! ha! ha! murdher—­hard fortune to me, but little Mickey Geery fell, an’ thripped the masther, an’ himself’s, disabled now—­his black breeches split too—­look at him feelin’ them—­oh! oh! ha! ha!—­by tare-an’-onty, Callaghan will be murdhered, if they cotch him.”