: sure they'd hang me for
shootin' Bonypart.--Aha!"

"Must the answer be brought back today, Art?"

"Oh! It wouldn't do to-morrow, at all. Be dodda, no! Five shillins,
your dinner, an' a quart of sthrong beer!--Aha! But you must give me
a shillin' or two, to buy a sword; for the Square's goin' to make me a
captain: thin I'll be grand! an' I'll make you a sargin'."

This seemed a windfall to Phelim. The unpleasant dilemma in which Sally
Flattery had placed him, by the fabricated account of her father's
imprisonment, made him extremely anxious to see Foodie himself, and to
ascertain the precise outrage for which he had been secured. Here
then was an opportunity of an interview with him, and of earning
five shillings, a good dinner, and a quart of strong beer, as already
specified.

"Art," said he, "give me the letther, an' I'm the boy that'll soon do
the job. Long life to you, Art! Be the contints o' the book, Art, I'll
never pelt you or vex you agin, my worthy; an' I'll always call you
captain!" Phelim immediately commenced his journey to M------, which was
only five miles distant, and in a very short time reached the jail, saw
the jailer, and presented his letter.

The latter, on perusing it, surveyed him with the scrutiny of a man
whose eye was practised in scanning offenders.

Phelim, whilst the jailer examined him, surveyed the strong and massy
bolts with which every door and hatchway was secured. Their appearance
produced rather an uncomfortable sensation in him; so much so, that
when the jailer asked him his name, he thought it more prudent, in
consequence of a touch of conscience he had, to personate Art for the
present, inasmuch as he felt it impossible to assume any name more safe
than that of an idiot.

"My name is Art Maguire," said he in reply to the jailer. "I'm messenger
to Square S----, the one he had was discharged on Friday last. I expect
soon to be made groom, too."

"Come this way," said the jailer, "and you shall have an answer."

He brought Phelim into the prison-yard, where he remained for about
twenty minutes, laboring under impressions which he felt becoming
gradually more unpleasant. His anxiety was not lessened on perceiving
twenty or thirty culprits, under the management of the turnkeys, enter
the yard, where they were drawn up in a line, like a file of soldiers.

"What's your name?" said one of the turnkeys.

"Art Maguire," replied Phelim.

"Stand here," said the other, shoving