To his great surprise, Mr. Hill saw his rick of bark re-built.
"Why, it was not there last night," exclaimed he, rubbing his eyes. "Why,
some conjuror must have done this."
"No," replied Mr. Marshal, "no conjuror did it: but your friend Bampfylde
the Second, king of the gipsies, was the cause of its being re-built; and
here is the man who actually pulled it down, and who actually re-built
it."
As he said these words Mr. Marshal opened the door of an adjoining room
and beckoned to the Irish haymaker, who had been taken into custody about
an hour before this time. The watch who took Paddy had called at Mr.
Hill's house to tell him what had happened, but Mr. Hill was not then at
home.
It was with much surprise that the verger heard the simple truth from
this poor fellow; but no sooner was he convinced that O'Neill was
innocent as to this affair, than he recurred to his other ground of
suspicion, the loss of his dog.
The Irish haymaker now stepped forward, and, with a peculiar twist of the
hips and shoulders, which those only who have seen it can picture to
themselves, said, "Plase your honour's honour, I have a little word to
say too about the dog."
"Say it, then," said Mr. Marshal.
"Plase your honour, if I might expect to be forgiven, and let off for
pulling down the jontleman's stack, I might be able to tell him what I
know about the dog.
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