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Updated: May 20, 2025
It would be supposed a man of Pat Brady's discernment, station, and character, would not have wished to belong to, or have been admitted by, so desperate a society; but he, nevertheless, was not only of them, but one of their leaders, and it can only be supposed that "he had his rasons." All these things were fully talked over at Mulready's that night.
Though this man was still hanging about the place, and had not come to an actual rupture with his master, still there had been no cordiality or confidence between them since Brady had failed to induce Thady to keep his appointment at the widow Mulready's; and for the last two days not even a single word had passed between them.
"Jonas Brown?" "Yes, Mr. Jonas Brown, the magistrate?" "Faix, I don't know. I can't rightly say." "Think now, my man; when you were trying to persuade your master to go to the widow Mulready's, did you mention Mr. Jonas Brown's name?" "D'ye think I do be counting my words that way; how am I to say all the names I mintioned four or five months back?"
To tell the truth, our friend Pat himself had been present all the evening at Mulready's, and if he did not talk so loud, he had said full as much as Joe. The latter was naturally indignant at the capture of his brother, who, in fact, at the time was living in his cabin, though he did hold an acre or two of ground in the same town-land as Joe Smith and the widow Byrne.
Prepared as he had been for the shock, Kirkwood was able to pick himself up quickly, uninjured, Mulready's revolver in his grasp. On his feet, straddling Mulready's insentient body, he confronted Calendar and Stryker. The face of the latter was a sickly green, the gift of his fright.
Had he known that things had gone wrong at the mill that day, that the new machine had broken one of its working parts and had brought everything to a standstill till it could be repaired, he would have been able to make allowances for Mr. Mulready's ill humor.
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