Shure he
knows all about the red-coats, case he's an arthillery man himself, and
that's the way he's found out his gran' combustible."
"An artilleryman?" said John. "He told me he was a writer for the press."
"Bedad, thin, he's mistaken himself intirely; for he tould me with his own
mouth. And I'll show you the thing he sowld me as is to do it. Shure, it'll
set fire to the stones o' the street, av' you pour a bit vitriol on it."
"Set fire to the stones? I must see that before I believe it."
"Shure an' ye shall then. Where'll I buy a bit? Sorra a shop is there open
this time o' night; an' troth I forgot the name o' it intirely! Poker o'
Moses, but here's a bit in my pocket!"
And out of his tattered coat-tail he lugged a flask of powder and a lump
of some cheap chemical salt, whose name I have, I am ashamed to say,
forgotten.
"You're a pretty fellow to keep such things in the same pocket with
gunpowder!"
"Come along to Mackaye's," said Crossthwaite. "I'll see to the bottom
of this. Be hanged, but I think the fellow's a cursed _mouchard_--some
government spy!"
"Spy is he, thin? Och, the thief o' the world! I'll stab him! I'll murther
him! an' burn the town afterwards, all the same.
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