“What do you say?” said the sergeant.
“I put my hand under its chin and there’s whiskers on it. I nearly let him out with the surprise, I did so.”
“Try again,” said the sergeant in a low voice; “you are making a mistake.”
“I don’t like touching them,” said Shawn. “It’s a soft whisker like a billy goat’s. Maybe you’d try yourself, sergeant, for I tell you I’m frightened of it.”
“Hold him over here,” said the sergeant, “and keep a good grip of him.”
“I’ll do that,” said Shawn, and he hauled some reluctant object towards his superior.
The sergeant put out his hand and touched a head.
“It’s only a boy’s size to be sure,” said he, then he slid his hand down the face and withdrew it quickly.
“There are whiskers on it,” said he soberly. “What the devil can it be? I never met whiskers so near the ground before. Maybe they are false ones, and it’s just the boy yonder trying to disguise himself.” He put out his hand again with an effort, felt his way to the chin, and tugged.
Instantly there came a yell, so loud, so sudden, that every man of them jumped in a panic.
“They are real whiskers,” said the sergeant with a sigh. “I wish I knew what it is. His voice is big enough for two men, and that’s a fact. Have you got another match on you?”
“I have two more in my waistcoat pocket,” said one of the men.
“Give me one of them,” said the sergeant; “I’ll strike it myself.”
He groped about until he found the hand with the match.
“Be sure and hold him tight, Shawn, the way we can have a good look at him, for this is like to be a queer miracle of a thing.”
“I’m holding him by the two arms,” said Shawn, “he can’t stir anything but his head, and I’ve got my chest on that.”
The sergeant struck the match, shading it for a moment with his hand, then he turned it on their new prisoner.
They saw a little man dressed in tight green clothes; he had a broad pale face with staring eyes, and there was a thin fringe of grey whisker under his chin—then the match went out.
“It’s a Leprecaun,” said the sergeant.
The men were silent for a full couple of minutes—at last Shawn spoke.
“Do you tell me so?” said he in a musing voice; “that’s a queer miracle altogether.”
“I do,” said the sergeant. “Doesn’t it stand to reason that it can’t be anything else? You saw it yourself.”
Shawn plumped down on his knees before his captive.
“Tell me where the money is?” he hissed. “Tell me where the money is or I’ll twist your neck off.”
The other men also gathered eagerly around, shouting threats and commands at the Leprecaun.
“Hold your whist,” said Shawn fiercely to them. “He can’t answer the lot of you, can he?” and he turned again to the Leprecaun and shook him until his teeth chattered.
“If you don’t tell me where the money is at once I’ll kill you, I will so.”
“I haven’t got any money at all, sir,” said the Leprecaun.
“None of your lies,” roared Shawn. “Tell the truth now or it’ll be worse for you.”
“I haven’t got any money,” said the Leprecaun, “for Meehawl MacMurrachu of the Hill stole our crock a while back, and he buried it under a thorn bush. I can bring you to the place if you don’t believe me.”
“Very good,” said Shawn. “Come on with me now, and I’ll clout you if you as much as wriggle; do you mind me?”
“What would I wriggle for?” said the Leprecaun: “sure I like being with you.”
Hereupon the sergeant roared at the top of his voice.
“Attention,” said he, and the men leaped to position like automata.
“What is it you are going to do with your prisoner, Shawn?” said he sarcastically. “Don’t you think we’ve had enough tramping of these roads for one night, now? Bring up that Leprecaun to the barracks or it’ll be the worse for you—do you hear me talking to you?”
“But the gold, sergeant,” said Shawn sulkily.
“If there’s any gold it’ll be treasure trove, and belong to the Crown. What kind of a constable are you at all, Shawn? Mind what you are about now, my man, and no back answers. Step along there. Bring that murderer up at once, whichever of you has him.”
There came a gasp from the darkness.
“Oh, Oh, Oh!” said a voice of horror.
“What’s wrong with you?” said the sergeant: “are you hurted?”
“The prisoner!” he gasped, “he, he’s got away!”
“Got away?” and the sergeant’s voice was a blare of fury.
“While we were looking at the Leprecaun,” said the voice of woe, “I must have forgotten about the other one—I, I haven’t got him—”
“You gawm!” gritted the sergeant.
“Is it my prisoner that’s gone?” said Shawn in a deep voice. He leaped forward with a curse and smote his negligent comrade so terrible a blow in the face, that the man went flying backwards, and the thud of his head on the road could have been heard anywhere.
“Get up,” said Shawn, “get up till I give you another one.”
“That will do,” said the sergeant, “we’ll go home. We’re the laughingstock of the world. I’ll pay you out for this some time, every damn man of ye. Bring that Leprecaun along with you, and quick march.”
“Oh!” said Shawn in a strangled tone.
“What is it now?” said the sergeant testily.
“Nothing,” replied Shawn.
“What did you say ‘Oh!’ for then, you blockhead?”
“It’s the Leprecaun, sergeant,” said Shawn in a whisper—“he’s got away—when I was hitting the man there I forgot all about the Leprecaun: he must have run into the hedge. Oh, sergeant, dear, don’t say anything to me now—!”
“Quick march,” said the sergeant, and the four men moved on through the darkness in a silence, which was only skin deep.
XV
By reason of the many years which he had spent in the gloomy
