the
neck of the horse he rode, got out of the water. The horses got home
without the post-chaise, and the other post-chaise and pair got home
without a postilion, so that Owny Doyle was roused from his bed by the
neighing of the horses at the gate of the inn. Great was his surprise at
the event, as, half clad, and a candle in his hand, he saw two pair of
horses, one chaise, and no driver, at his door. The next morning the
plot thickened. Squire O'Grady came to know if a gentleman had arrived
at the town on his way to Neck-or-Nothing Hall. The answer was in the
affirmative. Then "Where was he?" became a question. Then the report
arrived of the post-chaise being upset in the river. Then came stories
of postilions falling off, of postilions being changed, of Handy Andy
being employed to take the gentleman to the place; and out of these
materials the story became current, that "an English gentleman was
dhrownded in the river in a post-chaise." O'Grady set off directly with
a party to have the river dragged, and near the spot encountering Handy
Andy, he ordered him to be seized, and accused him of murdering his
friend.

It was in this state of things that the boats approached the party on
land, and the moment Dick Dawson saw Handy Andy, he put out his oars and
pulled away as hard as he could. At the moment he did so, Andy caught
sight of him, and pointing out Furlong and Dick to O'Grady, he shouted,
"There he is!--there he is!--I never murdhered him? There he is!--stop
him! Misther Dick, stop, for the love of God!"

"What's all this about?" said Furlong, in great amazement.

"Oh, he's a process-server," said Dick; "the people are going to drown
him, maybe."

"To dwown him?" said Furlong, in horror.

"If he has luck," said Dick, "they'll only give him a good ducking; but
we had better have nothing to do with it. I would not like you to be
engaged in one of these popular riots."

"I shouldn't wellish it myself," said Furlong.

"Pull away, Dick," said Murphy; "let them kill the blackguard, if they
like."

"But will they kill him weally?" inquired Furlong, somewhat horrified.

"'Faith, it's just as the whim takes them," said Murphy; "but as we
wish to be popular on the hustings, we must let them kill as many as
they please."

Andy still shouted loud enough to be heard. "Misther Dick, they're
goin' to murdher me."

"Poo' w'etch!" said Furlong, with a very uneasy shudder.

"Maybe you'd think it right for us to land