The O'Ruddy. Robert Barr

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ in it.

      "Shall I go up, sir?" he asked, not eagerly.

      "No," said I. "Leave me to deal with it. I fear a great mistake. Give me ten minutes, and I promise to empty the inn of all uproar."

      A murmur of admiration arose, and as the sound leaped about my ears I moved casually and indifferently up against Paddy. It was a grand scene.

      "Paddy," I whispered as soon as I had reached a place on the stairs safe from the ears of the people below. "Paddy, you have made a great blunder. You have the wrong man."

      "'Tis unlikely," replied Paddy with scorn. "You wait until you see him, and if he is not little and black, then—"

      "Yes, yes," said I hastily, "but it was not any little black man at all which I wanted. It was a particular little black man."

      "But," said the ruffian brightly, "it would be possible this one will serve your end. He's little and he's black."

      At this moment the voice of the captive came intoning through the door of a chamber.

      "When I am free I will first cut out your liver and have it grilled, and feed it to you as you are dying."

      Paddy had stepped forward and placed his lips within about six inches of one of the panels.

      "Come now, be easy!" he said. "You know well that if you should do as you say, I would beat your head that it would have the looks of a pudding fallen from a high window, and that's the truth."

      "Open the door, rascal," called the captive, "and we shall see."

      "I will be opening no doors," retorted Paddy indignantly. "Remain quiet, you little black devil, or, by the mass, I'll—"

      "I'll slice your heart into pieces of paper," thundered Paddy's prisoner, kicking and pounding.

      By this time I was ready to interfere. "Paddy," said I, catching him by the shoulder, "you have the wrong man. Leave it to me; mind you, leave it to me."

      "He's that small and black you'd think—" he began dejectedly, but I cut him short.

      Jem Bottles, unable to endure the suspense, had come up from below. He was still bristling and blustering, as if all the maids were remarking him.

      "And why does this fine gentleman kick and pound on the door?" he demanded in a gruff voice loud enough to be heard in all appreciative parts of the inn. "I'll have him out and slit his nose."

      The thunder on the door ceased, and the captive observed:

      "Ha! another scoundrel! If my ears do not play me false, there are now three waiting for me to kick them to the hangman."

      Restraining Paddy and Bottles, who each wished to reply in heroic verse to this sally, I stepped to the door.

      "Sir," said I civilly, "I fear a great blunder has been done. I—"

      "Why," said the captive with a sneer, "'tis the Irishman! 'Tis the king of the Irelands. Open the door, pig."

      My elation knew no bounds.

      "Paddy," cried I, "you have the right little black man." But there was no time for celebration. I must first answer my enemy. "You will remember that I kicked you once," said I, "and if you have a memory as long as my finger be careful I do not kick you again, else even people as far away as the French will think you are a meteor. But I would not be bandying words at long range. Paddy, unbar the door."

      "If I can," muttered Paddy, fumbling with a lot of machinery so ingenious that it would require a great lack of knowledge to thoroughly understand it. In the mean time we could hear Forister move away from the door, and by the sound of a leisurely scrape of a chair on the floor I judge he had taken his seat somewhere near the centre of the room. Bottles was handling his pistol and regarding me.

      "Yes," said I, "if he fires, do you pepper him fairly. Otherwise await my orders. Paddy, you slug, unbar the door."

      "If I am able," said Paddy, still muttering and fumbling with his contrivances. He had no sooner mouthed the words than the door flew open as if by magic, and we discovered a room bright with the light of a fire and candles. Forister was seated negligently at a table in the centre of the room. His legs were crossed, but his naked sword lay on the table at his hand. He had the first word, because I was amazed, almost stunned, by the precipitous opening of the door.

      "Ho! ho!" he observed frigidly, "'tis indeed the king of the Irelands, accompanied by the red-headed duke who has entertained me for some time, and a third party with a thief's face who handles a loaded pistol with such abandon as leads me to suppose that he once may have been a highwayman. A very pretty band."

      "Use your tongue for a garter, Forister," said I. "I want my papers."

CHAPTER V

       Table of Contents

      our 'papers'?" said Forister. "Damn you and your papers. What would I know of your papers?"

      "I mean," said I fiercely, "the papers that you stole out of my chamber in the inn at Bristol."

      The man actually sank back in his chair and laughed me up to the roof.

      "'Papers'!" he shouted. "Here's the king of the Irelands thinking that I have made off with his papers!"

      "You choose a good time for laughing," said I, with more sobriety. "In a short time you will be laughing with the back of your head."

      He sat up and looked at me with quick decision.

      "Now, what is all this rubbish about papers?" he said sharply. "What have I to do with your filthy papers? I had one intention regarding you—of that I am certain. I was resolved to kill you on the first occasion when we could cross swords, but—'papers'—faugh! What do you mean?"

      The hoarse voice of Jem Bottles broke in from somewhere behind me. "We might easily throw him to the earth and tie him, sir, and then make search of him."

      "And you would know how to go about the business, I warrant me," laughed Forister. "You muzzle-faced rogue, you!"

      To my astonishment the redoubtable highwayman gave back before the easy disdain of this superior scoundrel.

      "My ways may not always have been straight and narrow, master," he rejoined, almost in a whine, "but you have no call to name me muzzle-faced."

      Forister turned from him contemptuously and fixed his regard with much enthusiasm upon Paddy.

      "Very red," said he. "Very red, indeed. And thick as fagots, too. A very delectable head of hair, fit to be spun into a thousand blankets for the naked savages in heathen parts. The wild forests in Ireland must indeed be dark when it requires a lantern of this measure to light the lonely traveller on his way."

      But Paddy was an honest man even if he did not know it, and he at once walked СКАЧАТЬ