Tim Carroll again sidled up to his young master.
"The boys mane harrum, sir," said Tim; "but never mind, there's five of us
here. We've not been idle, we've all been taking pick o' the sticks, and
divil a stroke falls upon one of the ould ancient family widout showing a
bruck head or a flat back for it."
"What am I to understand by this?" inquired the young stranger.
"That you're like Tom Fergusson when he rode the losing horse--you've
mounted the wrong colour; and, be dad, you are pretty well marked down for
it, sir; but never mind, there's Tim Carroll looking as black as the
inside of a sut-bag. Let him come on! he peeled the skin off them shins o'
mine at futball; maybe, I won't trim his head with black thorn for that
same, if he's any ways obstropolis this blessed night."
"Silence, sir! neither my inclination nor sacred calling will allow me to
countenance a broil! I have been the first offender--to attempt to leave
the room now would but provoke an attack; leave this affair to me, and
don't interfere."
"By the powers! if man or mortal lifts his hand to injure you, I'll smash
the soul out of him! Do you think, omen or no omen, I'll stand by and see
you harmed?--not a bit of it! If you are a parson and a child of peace, I
have the honour to be a soldier, and claim my right to battle in your
cause.
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