Mother av Moses! fwhat cyan it mane anyhow?
What are them divvils afther?
An fwhat’s afther them?
Shure somethin’ has given them a scare—that’s plain as a pikestaff.
I wondher now if it’s been that same.
Be me sowl it’s jist it they’ve encounthered.
I heerd the hound gowlin, an didn’t he go afther it.
O Lard! what cyan it be?
May be it’ll be comin’ this way in purshoot av them?”
The dread of again beholding the unexplained apparition, or being beheld by it, caused him to shrink once more under the shadow of the tree; where he remained for some time longer in a state of trembling suspense.
“Afther all, it must be some thrick av Masther Maurice.
Maybe to give me a scare; an comin’ back he’s jist been in time to frighten off these ridskins that intinded to rub an beloike to murther us too.
Sowl! I hope it is that.
How long since I saw it first?
Trath! it must be some considerable time.
I remimber having four full naggins, an that’s all gone off.
I wondher now if them Indyins has come acrass av the dimmyjan?
I’ve heerd that they’re as fond of the crayther as if their skins was white.
Sowl! if they’ve smelt the jar there won’t be a dhrap in it by this time.
I’ll jist slip back to the hut an see.
If thare’s any danger now it won’t be from them.
By that tarin’ gallop, I cyan tell they’ve gone for good.”
Once more emerging from the shadowy stall, he made his way back towards the jacale.
He approached it with caption, stopping at intervals to assure himself that no one was near.
Notwithstanding the plausible hypothesis he had shaped out for himself, he was still in dread of another encounter with the headless horseman—who twice on his way to the hut might now be inside of it.
But for the hope of finding a “dhrap” in the demijohn, he would not have ventured back that night.
As it was, the desire to obtain a drink was a trifle stronger than his fears; and yielding to it, he stepped doubtfully into the darkness.
He made no attempt to rekindle the light. Every inch of the floor was familiar to him; and especially that corner where he expected to find the demijohn. He tried for it.
An exclamation uttered in a tone of disappointment told that it was not there.
“Be dad!” muttered he, as he grumblingly groped about; “it looks as if they’d been at it.
Av coorse they hav, else fwhy is it not in its place?
I lift it thare—shure I lift it thare.”
“Ach, me jewel! an it’s thare yez are yet,” he continued, as his hand came in contact with the wickerwork; “an’ bad luck to their imperence—impty as an eggshill!
Ach! ye greedy gutted bastes!
If I’d a known yez were goin’ to do that, I’d av slipped a thrifle av shumach juice into the jar, an made raal firewater av it for ye—jist fwhat yez wants.
Divil burn ye for a set av rid-skinned thieves, stalin’ a man’s liquor when he’s aslape!
Och-an-anee! fwhat am I to do now?
Go to slape agane?
I don’t belave I cyan, thinkin’ av tham an the tother, widout a thrifle av the crayther to comfort me.
An’ thare isn’t a dhrap widin twenty—Fwhat—fwhat!
Howly Mary! Mother av Moses! Sant Pathrick and all the others to boot, fwhat am I talkin’ about?
The pewther flask—the pewther flask!
Be japers! it’s in the thrunk—full to the very neck!
Didn’t I fill it for Masther Maurice to take wid him the last time he went to the sittlements?
And didn’t he forget to take it?
Lard have mercy on me! If the Indyins have laid their dhirty claws upon that I shall be afther takin’ lave at me sinses.”
“Hoo—hoop—hoorro!” he cried, after an interval of silence, during which he could be heard fumbling among the contents of the portmanteau. “Hoo—hoop—hoorro! thanks to the Lord for all his mercies.
The rid-skins haven’t been cunnin’ enough to look thare.
The flask as full as a tick—not wan av them has had a finger on it.
Hoo—hoop—hoorro!”