Meanwhile Dave took the horses out, walked inside, and threw himself on
the sofa without uttering a word. He felt ill.

Mother was in a paroxysm of fright. She threw her arms about frantically
and cried for someone to come. At last she sat down and tried to think
what she could do. She thought of the very thing, and ran for the
carving-knife, which she handed to Dave with shut eyes. He motioned her
with a disdainful movement of the elbow to take it away.

Would Maloney never come! He was coming, hat in hand, and running for
dear life across the potato-paddock. Behind him was his man. Behind his
man--Sal, out of breath. Behind her, Mrs. Maloney and the children.

"Phwat's the thrubble?" cried Maloney. "Bit be a dif--adher? O, be the
tares of war!" Then he asked Dave numerous questions as to how it
happened, which Joe answered with promptitude and pride. Dave simply
shrugged his shoulders and turned his face to the wall. Nothing was to be
got out of him.

Maloney held a short consultation with himself. Then--"Hould up yer hand!"
he said, bending over Dave with a knife. Dave thrust out his arm
violently, knocked the instrument to the other side of the room, and
kicked wickedly.

"The pison's wurrkin'," whispered Maloney quite loud.

"Oh, my gracious!" groaned Mother.

"The poor crathur," said Mrs. Maloney.