iend, Father Roach whose guest he had
the honour to be, can tell you more precisely the urgent nature of the
business on which he departed.'

Father Roach tried to stop the captain with a reproachful glance, but
that unfeeling officer fairly concluded his sentence notwithstanding,
with a wave of his hand and a bow to the cleric; and sitting down at the
same moment, left him in possession of the chair.

The fact was, that at an unseemly hour that morning three bailiffs--for
the excursion was considered hazardous--introduced themselves by a
stratagem into the reverend father's domicile, and nabbed the
high-souled Patrick Mahony, as he slumbered peacefully in his bed, to
the terror of the simple maid who let them in. Honest Father Roach was
for showing fight on behalf of his guest. On hearing the row and
suspecting its cause--for Pat had fled from the kingdom of Kerry from
perils of the same sort--his reverence jumped out of bed with a great
pound on the floor, and not knowing where to look for his clothes in the
dark, he seized his surplice, which always lay in the press at the head
of his bed, and got into it with miraculous speed, whisking along the
floor two pounds and a half of Mr. Fogarty's best bacon, which the holy
man had concealed in the folds of that sacred vestment, to elude the
predatory instincts of the women, and from which he and Mr. Mahony were
wont to cut their jovial rashers.

The shutter of poor Mahony's window was by this time open, and the gray
light disclosed the grimly form of Father Roach, in his surplice,
floating threateningly into the chamber. But the bailiffs were picked
men, broad-shouldered and athletic, and furnished with active-looking
shillelaghs. Veni, vidi, victus sum! a glance showed him all was lost.

'My blessin' an you, Peg Finigan! and was it you let them in?' murmured
his reverence, with intense feeling.

'At whose suit?' enquired the generous outlaw, sitting up among the
blankets.

'Mrs. Elizabeth Woolly, relict and administhrathrix of the late Mr.
Timotheus Woolly, of High-street, in the city of Dublin, tailor,'
responded the choragus of the officers.

'Woolly--I was thinkin' so,' said the captive. 'I wisht I _had_ her by
the wool, bad luck to her!'

So away he went, to the good-natured ecclesiastic's grief, promising,
nevertheless, with a disconsolate affectation of cheerfulness, that all
should be settled, and he under the Priest's roof-tree again before
night.

'I