_Randal_ (_with infinite contempt_) Touch ye! Not I, ye dirty dog!

_Mr. Carv._ No, sir, you have done enough that way already, it appears.

_Honor._ Randal! what, has Randal done this?

_Mr. Carv._ Now observe--this Mr. Patrick Coxe, aforesaid, has taken refuge
with me; for he is, it seems, afraid to appear before his master, Mr.
O'Blaney, this night, after having been beaten: though, as he assures me,
he has been beaten without any provocation whatsoever, by you, Mr. Randal
Rooney--answer, sir, to this matter.

_Randal._ I don't deny it, sir--I bet him, 'tis true.

_Pat._ To a jelly--without marcy--he did, plase your honour, sir.

_Randal._ Sir, plase your honour, I got rason to suspect this man to be the
author of all them lies that was tould backwards and forwards to my mother,
about me and Miss Honor McBride, which made my mother mad, and driv' her
to raise the riot, plase your honour. I charged Pat with the lies, and he
shirked, and could give me no satisfaction, but kept swearing he was no
liar, and bid me keep my distance, for he'd a pocket pistol about him. "I
don't care what you have about you--you have not the truth about ye, nor
in ye," says I; "ye are a liar, Pat Coxe," says I: so he cocked the pistol
at me, saying, _that_ would prove me a coward--with that I wrenched the
pistol from him, and _bet_ him in a big passion. I own to that, plase your
honour--there I own I was wrong (_turning to HONOR_), to demane myself
lifting my hand any way.