the traveller's
hurry impaired his aim. Before he could discharge a second pistol, Andy
had screened himself under the horses' heads; and recognising in the
postilion his friend Micky Doolin, he shouted out, "Micky, jewel, don't
let them be shootin' me!"

Now Micky's cares were quite enough engaged on his own account: for the
first pistol-shot made the horses plunge violently, and the second time
Furlong blazed away set the saddle-horse kicking at such a rate, that
all Micky's horsemanship was required to preserve his seat; added to
which, the dread of being shot came over him, and he crouched low on
the grey's neck, holding fast by the mane, and shouting for mercy as
well as Andy, who still kept roaring to Mick, "not to let them be
shootin' him," while he held his hat above him, in the fashion of a
shield, as if that would have proved any protection against a bullet.
"Who are you at all?" said Mick.

"Andy Rooney, sure."

"And what do you want?"

"To save the man's life."

The last words only caught the ear of the frightened Furlong; and as
the phrase "his life" seemed a personal threat to himself, he swore a
trembling oath at the postilion that he would shoot him if he did not
_dwive_ on, for he abjured the use of that rough letter, R, which
the Irish so much rejoice in. "Dwive on, you wascal, dwive on!"
exclaimed Mr. Furlong.

"There's no fear o' you, sir," said Micky, "it's a friend o' my own."

Mr. Furlong was not quite satisfied that he was therefore the safer.

"And what is it at all, Andy?" continued Mick.

"I tell you there's a man lying dead in the road here, and sure you'll
kill him, if you dhrive over him."

"How could I kill him any more than he _is_ kilt," says Mick, "if
he's dead already?"

"Well, no matther for that," says Andy. "'Light off your horse, will
you, and help me to rise him?"

Mick dismounted, and assisted Andy in lifting the prostrate man from
the centre of the road to the slope of turf which bordered its side.
They judged he was not dead, however, from the warmth of the body; but
that he should still sleep seemed astonishing, considering the quantity
of shaking and kicking they gave him.

"I b'lieve it's drunk he is," said Mick.

"He gave a grunt that time," said Andy; "shake him again, and he'll
spake."

To a fresh shaking the drunken man at last gave some tokens of returning
consciousness, by making several winding blows at his benefactors, and
uttering some half-inte