The priest, who respected his cloth and character, did not lay aside
his jock, nor expose himself to the coarse jests and ruffianly insolence
with which the vagabond minions of justice were in those days accustomed
to treat their prisoners. He inquired if he could get a person to carry
a message from him to a man named Corbet, living at 25 Constitution
Hill; adding, that he would compensate him fairly. On this, one of those
idle loungers or orderlies about such places offered himself at once,
and said he would bring any message he wished, provided he forked out in
the first instance.

"Go, then," said the priest, handing him a piece of silver, "to No. 25
Constitution Hill, where a man named Corbet--what am I saying--Dunphy,
lives, and tell him to come to me immediately."

"Ha!" said Darby, laying his finger along; his nose, as he spoke to one
of his associates, "I smell an alias there. Good; first Corbet and then
Dunphy. What do you call that? That chap is one of the connection. Take
the message, Skipton; mark him well, and let him be here, if possible,
before we bring the prisoner to Sir Thomas Gourlay's."

The fellow winked in reply, and approaching the priest, asked,

"What message have you to send, Mr. Finnerty?"

"Tell him--but stay; oblige me with a slip of paper and a pen, I will
write it down."

"Yes, that's better," said Darby. "Nothing like black and white, you
know," he added, aside to Skipton.

Father M'Mahon then wrote down his office only; simply saying, "The
parish priest of Ballytrain wishes to see Anthony Dunphy as soon as he
can come to him."

This description of himself excited roars of laughter throughout the
office; nor could the good-natured priest himself help smiling at the
ludicrous contrast between his real character and that which had been
affixed upon him.

"Confound me," said Darby, "but that's the best alias I have heard this
many a day. It's as good as Tom Green's that was hanged, and who always
stuck to his name, no matter how often he changed it. At one time it was
Ivy, at another Laurel, at another Yew, and so on, poor fellow, until he
swung." Skipton, the messenger, took the slip of paper with high glee,
and proceeded on his embassy to Constitution Hill.

He had scarcely been gone, when a tumult reached their ears from
outside, in which one voice was heard considerably louder and deeper
than the rest; and almost immediately afterwards an old acquaintance
of the reader's,