clothes in ribbons.

'Put him in a cart, boys, and take him off to the gaol,' said the attorney,
McEvoy. 'We'll be in a scrape about all this, if we don't make _him_ in the
wrong.'

His audience fully appreciated the counsel, and while a few were busied in
carrying old Gill to the house--for a broken leg made him unable to reach
it alone--the others placed O'Shea on some straw in a cart, and set out
with him to Kilbeggan.

'It is not a trespass at all,' said McEvoy. 'I'll make it a burglary and
forcible entry, and if he recovers at all, I'll stake my reputation I
transport him for seven years.'

A hearty murmur of approval met the speech, and the procession, with the
cart at their head, moved on towards the town.

CHAPTER LV

TWO J.P.'S

It was the Tory magistrate, Mr. Flood--the same who had ransacked Walpole's
correspondence--before whom the informations were sworn against Gorman
O'Shea, and the old justice of the peace was, in secret, not sorry to see
the question of land-tenure a source of dispute and quarrel amongst the
very party who were always inveighing against the landlords.

When Lord Kilgobbin arrived at Kilbeggan it was nigh midnight, and as
young O'Shea was at that moment a patient in the gaol infirmary, and sound
asleep, it was decided between Kearney and his son that they would leave
him undisturbed till the following morning.

Late as it was, Kearney was so desirous to know the exact narrative of
events that he resolved on seeing Mr. Flood at once. Though Dick Kearney
remonstrated with his father, and reminded him that old Tom Flood, as he
was called, was a bitter Tory, had neither a civil word nor a kind thought
for his adversaries in politics, Kearney was determined not to be turned
from his purpose by any personal consideration, and being assured by the
innkeeper that he was sure to find Mr. Flood in his dining-room and over
his wine, he set out for the snug cottage at the entrance of the town,
where the old justice of the peace resided.

Just as he had been told, Mr. Flood was still in the dinner-room, and
with his guest, Tony Adams, the rector, seated with an array of decanters
between them.

'Kearney--Kearney!' cried Flood, as he read the card the servant handed
him. 'Is it the fellow who calls himself Lord Kilgobbin, I wonder?'

'Maybe so,' growled Adams, in a deep guttural, for he disliked the effort
of speech.

'I don't know him, nor do I want to know him. He is one of