shot, I'd give you my own cross handles, but they'd only spoil your
shooting."

"I can hit a wine-glass in the stem at fifteen paces," said I, rather
nettled at the disparaging tone in which he spoke of my performance.

"I don't care sixpence for that; the wine-glass had no pistol in his hand.
Take the old German, then; see now, hold your pistol thus,--no finger on
the guard there, these two on the trigger. They are not hair-triggers; drop
the muzzle a bit; bend your elbow a trifle more; sight your man outside
your arm,--outside, mind,--and take him in the hip, and if anywhere higher,
no matter."

By this time the count had completed his toilet, and taking the small
mahogany box which contained his peace-makers under his arm, led the way
towards the stables. When we reached the yard, the only person stirring
there was a kind of half-witted boy, who, being about the house, was
employed to run of messages from the servants, walk a stranger's horse, or
to do any of the many petty services that regular domestics contrive always
to devolve upon some adopted subordinate. He was seated upon a stone step
formerly used for mounting, and though the day was scarcely breaking, and
the weather severe and piercing, the poor fellow was singing an Irish song,
in a low monotonous tone, as he chafed a curb chain between his hands with
some sand. As we came near he started up, and as he pulled off his cap to
salute us, gave a sharp and piercing glance at the count, then at me,
then once more upon my companion, from whom his eyes were turned to the
brass-bound box beneath his arm,--when, as if seized with a sudden impulse,
he started on his feet, and set off towards the house with the speed of a
greyhound, not, however, before Considine's practised eye had anticipated
his plan; for throwing down the pistol-case, he dashed after him, and in an
instant had seized him by the collar.

"It won't do, Patsey," said the count; "you can't double on me."

"Oh, Count, darlin', Mister Considine avick, don't do it, don't now," said
the poor fellow, falling on his knees, and blubbering like an infant.

"Hold your tongue, you villain, or I'll cut it out of your head," said
Considine.

"And so I will; but don't do it, don't for the love of--"

"Don't do what, you whimpering scoundrel? What does he think I'll do?"

"Don't I know very well what you're after, what you're always after too?
Oh, wirra, wirra!" Here he wrung his hands, and swayed himself