hat the blazes," said another of them, "keeps him? Surely he ought to
be here before now. Had Mr. O'Connor good sport?"

"How could he," replied Finnerty, "wid the fog that was on the
mountains?"

At this moment an individual made his appearance, whom it was impossible
to look upon without being most forcibly struck by his figure. He was
a broad-shouldered, muscular, powerful man, with immensely large limbs;
his hair was black, and a huge pair of whiskers of the same color
stretched across his cheeks, met at his chin, and ran down in an
unbroken line round a huge and remarkably well-set neck. The moment he
entered, and before he had time to speak, two or three of them instantly
placed their fingers significantly upon their lips, as if to indicate
silence, apprehensive, as M'Carthy at the time thought, lest his voice
might be recognised. Another of them then whispered something to him,
and whatever the secret was, it caused him to glance for a moment, and
involuntarily, towards the bed. All that he spoke afterwards was uttered
in whispers.

CHAPTER X.--The Sport Continued.

Finnerty's house, which had been built for more purposes than were
necessary for the accommodation of a caretaker or gamekeeper, was simply
a plain apartment, tolerably large, with room enough in it for a
couple of beds; to this was added a shooting-lodge for the owner of the
mountains, which consisted of three or four bed-rooms opening from a
well-sized dining-room, and a kitchen distinct from the apartment which
constituted the dwelling of the gamekeeper, being that which Finnerty,
as such, then occupied. It was in the dining-room of the shooting-lodge
that the Whiteboy meetings were uniformly held, although of late it had
been usual for those who attended them to sit in Finnerty's house until
the hour had arrived for commencing business, when they adjourned to the
other. We should say that the gamekeeper's house, though under the same
roof, as it is termed, with the shooting-lodge, was distinct from it
in other respects; that is to say, there was no internal communication
between them.

"Who was that fellow that we met with you a while ago?" asked one of
them a second time, as if having forgotten his name.

"Poor Mogue Moylan," replied Finnerty, "and sadly bate down he was wid
this day's Work; I advised him to go to bed as soon as he could, and
refresh himself by a good sleep."

"Advise!" said a voice, that almost made M'Carthy start,