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

"Your '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 to Forister and held against his ear a fist the size of a pig's
hind-leg.

"I cannot throw the talk back to you," he said. "You are too fast for
me, but I tell you to your face that you had better change your tongue
for a lock of an old witch's hair unless you intend to be battered
this moment."

"Peace," said Forister calmly. "I am a man of natural wit, and I wou