“PUT THE DUNKEY TO”
It was perhaps through the mouth of Con Cogan that wind of the matter
got about. However, that may have been, it is certain that by eight
o’clock next morning the news was all over the country-side that Paddy
Murphy had been caught and was a prisoner in Glen Druid House.
From cabin to cabin, from Castle Knock to Shepherd’s Cross, the news
went, filling hearts with exultation and a sneaky sort of sorrow.
Paddy was feared and hated. Mark you, I do not put it hated and feared,
for in the Irish mind there is a lot of difference between the two
statements.
The hatred he had caused was not the leaden and colourless hatred which
a landlord or a tyrant can inspire; it was born entirely of his lawless
and desperate acts of ruffianism, and therefore had a romantic tinge.
He was hated because he was feared, and now that fear of him became
remote, the hatred of him began to fade from the public mind.
Cattle-driving was going on merrily beyond Shepherd’s Cross, and all the
police were clumped in that district as busy as bees; the one constable
at Tullagh was down with the influenza. These facts were remembered and
quoted with a certain glee.
“So Paddy is nailed at last!” cried Mr Mullins, the cobbler, to Mr
Mahony across the road.
“So I b’lave,” said Mr Mahony.
“They’ve got him at the Big House, shut up in the cowl-cellar I hear,”
said Mr Mullins.
“Faith, if they don’t relase him it won’t be a cowl-cellar long,”
replied the sweep.
“It was Con who let him in, they say.”
“Faith, then, it’ll be the worse for Con, I’m thinking, when they let
him out.”
“Begob, yes,” said Mr Mullins.
Mr Stone, the “cow-doctor” (he doctored horses too, and sheep, but cows
were his speciality), riding by on an animal that recalled nothing so
much as Wallenstein’s[2] horse, drew up.
“So Paddy’s took,” said Mr Stone.
“So we was sayin’,” replied Mr Mullins.
“What’ll he get, at all?” asked Mr Stone, of no one in particular.
“Seven year, if he gets an hour,” replied the sweep.
“Ohone!” cried Mrs Mahony, who was standing in the doorway behind her
lord and master with the inevitable baby in her arms. “Sure, it’s crool
to think of it, a fine figure of a man like him.”
She was voicing the general opinion of the female population, for,
though Paddy was short, he was well built, and his deeds had given him
at least two extra inches of stature.
“When the drink was in him, he wasn’t to hold or bind,” said Mr Stone
reflectively.
“But he always kept his legs,” said Mr Mullins.
“Ay, he always kept his legs,” said Mr Stone.
Footnote 2:
“The head, neck, legs, and part of the body have been repaired; all
the rest is the real horse.”—“Foreign Tour of Messrs. Brown, Jones,
and Robinson.”
“O’Farrell’s hounds are meetin’ on the lawn of the Big House,” went on
the cow-doctor after a pause.
“Tin o’clock,” said Bob Mahony.
“Are yiz goin’?” asked the cobbler.
“Maybe and not,” replied the sweep, who, since the affair of Mr Boxall,
had risen still further in the estimation of the people. He had floored
a Member of Parliament. The deed was accidental, but, still, he was only
the man in the county, or the country either, who had done such a thing.
“Here comes Billy the Buck,” said Mr Stone; “maybe he’ll have news. Any
news, Billy?”
Billy, amongst his other avocations, served as a sort of living
newspaper. His grandfather had been a gabberlunzy man, and the
news-bearing property was in him, just as the art of pointing is in a
pointer or retrieving in a spaniel. That his news was mostly lies only
showed that he was an artist in his profession. (_Item._—He never told
lies about foxes.)
“There’s a fox an a vixin in the siven acres,” replied Billy, drawing up
like a horse.
A roar of laughter greeted this information. Billy, for once, was out of
it.
“What the divil are yiz brayin’ about?” asked Billy.
“Where’s your ears?” asked Mr Mahony.
“On me head,” replied Billy—“no need to ax where yours is. What are yiz
gettin’ at?”
“Haven’t you heard of Paddy Murphy?”
“What ails Paddy Murphy?”
“He’s locked up in the cowl-hole of the Big House,” replied Mr Mahony.
“You lie!” replied Billy.
“Tell him,” said the sweep, addressing Mr Mullins.
The cobbler, glad for once to take the journalistic shine out of Billy,
gave a detailed report of the capture of Paddy Murphy, to which Billy
listened with deep attention and an asinine expression of wonder on his
long yellow face, scratching his head now and then, and now and then
uttering ejaculations of surprise.
“Is it the threwth you’re tellin’ me?” asked Billy, when the recital was
over.
“It is.”
“And where did you get your information from?”
“Not from you,” replied the cobbler.
“No,” replied Billy, “for, if you had, you’d a’ got it right. Paddy’s in
no cowl-hole, he’s locked in the pitato room of the Big House.”
“And where did _you_ get your information from, may I ax?”
“From himself.”
“And where did you see him?”
“Tin minits ago, wid his face at the pitato room winda and him filing
his way out through the bars. I wint up to see Larry Lyburn about a bit
of a bizness, and Larry says to me, ‘Billy,’ he says. ‘What?’ says I.
‘Listen,’ he says. We was standin’ by the coach-house dure, and I
listened, and, sure enough, I hears the sound of a file. The pitato room
winda is hid from the stable-yard by an arm of the wall, and, sure
enough, at the bars of it, there was Paddy’s big red face and him filin’
away at a bar. ‘I’m cocht,’ says Paddy. ‘Begorra, you look it,’ says I.
‘But I’m not cocht yet,’ says he, with a grin. ‘If the file houlds I’ll
be out in two hours’ hard work.’”
Billy halted, dead, and looked around him upon his discomfited audience.
“O’Farrell’s hounds meet at the Big House at tin o’clock,” said Mr
Stone. “I was jew be this to see Mr Moriarty’s cow. She’s swallowed a
dish-clath off a hedge, bad scran to her! and can’t get shut of it—but
she’ll have to wait for me attindance till afther the meet. I wouldn’t
miss it for two hundred cows, for you mark me words, there’ll be things
to be seen.”
“Faith,” said Mr Mullins, “I had this pair of brogues to finish be
twelve, but, begorra! if I never struck another peg I’ll be wid you to
see the fun.”
“What’s the time now?” asked Mr Mahony.
“Gone nine,” replied Mr Stone.
Mr Mahony paused for a second in thought, then:
“Billy!” cried he.
“Yes, daddy?” came a voice from the back of the cottage.
“Put the dunkey to.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------