, seizing his rifle, levelled the
bayonet to within an inch of Charlie's heart.

"Now, ye thievin' blackguard," said he, "move an inch and I'll stick ye
like a pig. Arrah! but ye came to the wrong boy when ye thought to play
your tricks on me! Stan' still now, or as sure as you're alive you're a
dead man;" and he gave Charlie a suggestive touch with the point of his
weapon, which showed plainly he had every intention of being as good as
his word.

Here was a predicament! and I could do nothing to help.

Charlie, fairly penned in a corner, was at a loss what to say or do. He
began in an angry strain,--

"Don't be a fool, sir; do you--"

"Howld yer tongue!" roared Paddy, giving another poke with his bayonet.

Then Charlie attempted to laugh, which enraged the sentry all the more.

"Is it mock me, ye would, as well as rob me, ye foul-mouthed spalpeen,
you?" he cried.

"I don't want to rob you," put in Charlie.

"Faith and I'll see ye don't," retorted the Irishman.

"Listen to me an instant," besought Charlie.

"The sorra a word. Ye shall say it all before the gineral the morrow,
for there I'll take ye."

For some moments Charlie stood in this awkward fix, not daring to stir,
or even to speak, and with every prospect of spending the night with a
bayonet point within an inch of his body.

Suddenly, however, a brilliant idea occurred to him. If I really was
his old watch, as he fancied, this man had possibly found me where
Halliday had lost me.

It was a bare chance every way, but he determined to try it.

"So you are from Seatown!" he suddenly exclaimed.

The rifle literally dropped from the astonished sentry's hand.

"Who told ye that?" he almost shrieked.

"Never mind," said Charlie, following up the advantage, and softly
stepping out of his corner. "It's two years since you left, isn't it?"

Patrick was "dumfoundered." This man must be in league, surely, with
the powers of darkness!

"_Now_ do you know why I want that watch?" said Charlie sternly, at the
same time quietly picking up the dropped rifle. The tables were fairly
turned now. The wretched Patrick, whose conscience had more than once
smitten him about the way in which he had become possessed of me, looked
the picture of terror--not at the bayonet, but at the man who held it.

He drew me from his pocket with trembling hands, and holding me out at
arm's length, cried,--

"Arrah, arrah! take him, gineral, take him. How was I to k