—a succession of yells ending in chuckling
laughter. It is Fitzpatrick; he has thrown off
the mask at last! Distant, ever more distant,
is the clatter of the hoofs, now ringing more
clearly as they mount the hills, now dying away
in the hollows. At last it is heard only at
distant, intervals, and then no more.

According to his own story, James
Fitzpatrick had left Ireland three years before "the
war." Wandering through "the States," doing
a turn of work, now here, now there, he became
a sort of slave-driver on a cotton-plantation in
South Carolina. When the war between North
and South broke out, he bore arms in the
Confederate ranks, and fought at Beaufort and New
Orleans under the Palmetto flag. Either as a
deserter or a prisoner, he changed sides, and
served with Sherman during his famous march
from Atlanta to Charleston, and fearful were
the tales he told to our frightened but eagerly
listening children of blood, and death, and
plunder he had seen. Leaving this service,
too, he never told us how or why, he became
"lifter" to a corn-merchant at Chicago—an
employment for which his powerful and active
frame well fitted him. He offered his services
to me a few weeks after his return to Ireland
"for any wages I pleased to give." I had just
obtained a life interest in a small farm of twenty
acres of arable land, with ten acres of
ornamental wood. The place had been shamefully
neglected, and my ignorance of farming was
supreme. Fitzpatrick was recommended to me
as a "handy man," ready to "put his strength"
to any kind of labour; and such I found
him.

His experience in "the territories" of America
had taught him much. He was equal to three
ordinary men in capacity for work and facility
in expedients. He kneaded and baked our
bread, cared and milked our cows, made our
butter, did a trifle of blacksmith's work,
repaired our gates and fences, and executed rough
jobs of carpentry. We found out that he
washed, clear-starched, and "did up fine things"
as well as any laundry-maid. There was nothing
he was not willing to attempt and could not
manage to do in some way, so as to answer the
purpose for a time. He soon brought our small
farm "to rights," working himself energetically
but noisily, and making others work. With
our children he was all in all; their great
authority and lawgiver in the art of constructing
rabbit-hutches, setting snares for hares or birds,
and building toy ships to sail upon the pond.
He knew where the hawk had her young, and
the woodquest built her nest. Great was the
store of wild birds' eggs the boys gathered on
the moor and "blew" under his direction. As
a help he was invaluable to us, but there was a
restlessness and wildness, sometimes a degree of
violence, in his character which caused uneasiness.
He spoke of our farm as his own, and
openly said what he would have done next
year; but the Irish steward identified himself
so far with his master, that this occasioned no
surprise. We knew not then that he had
purchased an "Irish bond" on our small estate.
He boasted more than once to others that "he
could buy and sell us" if he pleased. I was
informed he threatened to leave those behind him
who would revenge him if I dismissed him, but
the evidence was vague and wavering. The
Irish peasant will not "peach," and if in
passion he blurts out a charge, under examination
he softens down his words and leaves you
powerless. In this case I could find no fair
reason to dismiss Fitzpatrick, and placed as I
was amidst strangers not of my own creed, I
would do nothing without the clearest proof.
One part of his character did give me real
uneasiness. He hated, or professed to hate,
the priests of his own communion. He
forsook his "duty," seldom going to chapel,
never to confession. The language he
ventured to use towards his own priest was
unmeasured in abuse; yet the parish priest was a
gentle aged man, kindly and charitable, never
interfering in politics save to condemn the
Fenians.

Early in the month of October, Fitzpatrick
requested me to sign, in evidence of his identity,
an American draft for one hundred and eighty
dollars, drawn in his favour at New York. This,
he said, was the amount of his savings at Chicago,
which he had left in bank until "gold got cheap."
His account was not improbable, for I knew him
to be hard-working and thrifty. On the third
Sunday of December he brought another note,
but this time for two hundred and fifty dollars.
I refused, but in quiet terms, to sign such a
document on Sunday. A sudden fear flashed
across my mind, for these American bills were
objects of suspicion. I determined on the
moment, come what would, to dismiss Fitzpatrick.
On my refusal to sign the note his face grew
purple, and he dashed from the room, more
resembling a maniac than a sane man. On that
night he fled.

There was no rest for the remainder of the
night. We closed the yard-gates, bolted and
barred the rooms below, and waited for the
winter's dawn. To send for the constabulary,
I should leave the house to females and children.
I should have to pass through the wood to reach
the lodge; and who could tell whether the keeper
was not in the plot? An hour passed away, and
then came the tramp of men upon the gravel.
They paused before the house, and the sound of
grounded arms was plain. A short rapid glance
from the window showed us the police. There
were twelve in the patrol. Three, and the
sergeant a little in advance, faced the hall door
full in the moonlight; two were dimly seen in
the dark shadow of the trees on either side; the
rest had mounted the yard gate, for we heard
them moving on the pavement.

"Very sorry to disturb you, sir, but we have
orders."

"Wait one moment, sergeant, I will let
you in."

"We have a warrant, sir, against Fitzpatrick,
which is his room?"

A few words sufficed to show that Fitzpatrick