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The
command
takes
effect
upon
the
Connemara
man
,
who
has
been
making
direct
for
Zeb
Stump
's
mare
,
tethered
on
the
other
side
of
the
opening
.
He
stops
upon
the
instant
.
"
Shure
,
gintlemen
,
I
do
n't
want
to
escyape
,
"
asseverates
he
,
shivering
at
the
sight
of
a
score
of
angry
faces
,
and
the
same
number
of
gun-barrels
bearing
upon
his
person
;
"
I
had
no
such
intinshuns
.
I
was
only
goin
'
to
--
"
"
Run
off
,
if
ye
'd
got
the
chance
.
Ye
'd
made
a
good
beginning
.
Here
,
Dick
Tracey
!
half-a-dozen
turns
of
your
trail-rope
round
him
.
Lend
a
hand
,
Shelton
!
Damned
queer-looking
curse
he
is
!
Surely
,
gentlemen
,
this
ca
n't
be
the
man
we
're
in
search
of
?
"
"
No
,
no
!
it
is
n't
.
Only
his
man
John
.
"
"
Ho
!
hilloa
,
you
round
there
at
the
back
!
Keep
your
eyes
skinned
.
We
hav
n't
got
him
yet
.
Do
n't
let
as
much
as
a
cat
creep
past
you
.
Now
,
sirree
!
who
's
inside
?
"
"
Who
's
insoide
?
The
cyabin
div
yez
mane
?
"
"
Damn
ye
!
answer
the
question
that
's
put
to
ye
!
"
says
Tracey
,
giving
his
prisoner
a
touch
of
the
trail-rope
.
"
Who
's
inside
the
shanty
?
"
"
O
Lard
!
Needs
must
whin
the
divvel
dhrives
.
Wil
,
then
,
thare
's
the
masther
for
wan
--
"
"
Ho
!
what
's
this
?
"
inquires
Woodley
Poindexter
,
at
this
moment
,
riding
up
,
and
seeing
the
spotted
mare
.
"
Why
--
it
--
it
's
Looey
's
mustang
!
"
