The incendiary stammered, and looked towards his accomplice, as though uncertain what to say, and while hesitating, the latter exclaimed: 

“It is useless to mince matters, Pat—­we are in a fix, and have got to make the most of it.  We belong to a secret league, whose object is to resist paying the taxes imposed by government upon miners, and hearing that you were with the government, we determined to clip your claws, and prevent you from doing mischief.  If your store had taken fire, we might have made a few pounds by plunder, but as for receiving five pounds, or any money for the work, it’s all sham, and Pat knows it.  We talked the matter over with a dozen or so, and agreed to do the business.  That’s all about it, and you may make the most of it, and hand us over to the police as soon as you please.”

The ruffian spoke in as free and easy a manner as though he had been engaged in some meritorious work, instead of a piece of black villany.

“You did not know, then, that we were opposed to the government on the tax question, and that while we determined to take no part in the struggle, we sympathized with the miners?” inquired Fred.

“One of the men to whom we talked said as much,” answered the fellow, “but we did not pay any attention to him, and neither do I believe it now.”

“Then let this convince you,” exclaimed Fred, taking the key of the irons from Murden’s hand, and unlocking the handcuffs.  “There, you are free.  Go and tell the dissatisfied miners that we will never plot against them, although it is probable that we shall not take up arms in their defence.  We are traders, and have done with fighting, and wish to remain neutral.”

The fellows stared in unfeigned astonishment at Fred, and then around the store, as though hardly convinced that they had heard the welcome intelligence.

“Is your honor serious?” asked the Irishman.

“Quite so—­go; but if another attempt is made to burn us out, we have weapons that we know how to use.  Say so to those with whom you plotted.”

“I won’t say that I’m sorry for what I’ve done, ’cos no great harm has happened any how,” said the Englishman, who appeared to possess more of an education than his companion; “but I’ll say this—­had we burned your store down, and then learned that you was not agin us, I should have felt bad, and would have tried to right it in some way.  We are poor devils at best, and ain’t got much in common, but we are all liable to make mistakes, and so we supposed that we were really doing something for the cause.”

“It’s little I thought it was ye,” said the Irishman, who seemed determined also to offer an excuse.  “Faith, had I known it was the two rael gintlemen who healed me sores, it’s little I’d thought of setting ye on fire.  Long lives to ye, and don’t be afraid of bad luck after this.  It’s Paddy O’Shea who will fight for ye to the longest day that he lives.”