These sly fellows agreed that they must not go to Belmont by Chapelizod-bridge, which would lead them through the town, in front of the barrack, and under the very sign-board of the Phoenix.  No, they would go by the Knockmaroon-road, cross the river by the ferry, and unperceived, and unsuspected, enter the grounds of Belmont on the further side.

So away went the amorous musicians, favoured by the darkness, and talking in an undertone, and thinking more than they talked, while little Puddock, from under his cloak, scratched a faint little arpeggio and a chord, ever and anon, upon ‘the inthrument.’

When they reached the ferry, the boat was tied at the near side, but deuce a ferryman could they see.  So they began to shout and hallo, singly, and together, until Cluffe, in much ire and disgust, exclaimed—­

’Curse the sot—­drunk in some whiskey-shop—­the blackguard!  That is the way such scoundrels throw away their chances, and help to fill the high roads with beggars and thieves; curse him, I sha’n’t have a note left if we go on bawling this way.  I suppose we must go home again.’

‘Fiddle-thtick!’ exclaimed the magnanimous Puddock.  ’I pulled myself across little more than a year ago, and ’twas as easy as—­as—­anything.  Get in, an’ loose her when I tell you.’

This boat was managed by means of a rope stretched across the stream from bank to bank; seizing which, in both hands, the boatman, as he stood in his skiff, hauled it, as it seemed, with very moderate exertion across the river.

Cluffe chuckled as he thought how sold the rascally boatman would be, on returning, to find his bark gone over to the other side.

‘Don’t be uneathy about the poor fellow,’ said Puddock; ’we’ll come down in the morning and make him a present, and explain how it occurred.’

‘Explain yourself—­poor fellow, be hanged!’ muttered Cluffe, as he took his seat, for he did not part with his silver lightly.  ’I say, Puddock, tell me when I’m to slip the rope.’

The signal given, Cluffe let go, entertaining himself with a little jingle of Puddock’s guitar, of which he had charge, and a verse or two of their last song; while the plump little lieutenant, standing upright, midships in the boat, hauled away, though not quite so deftly as was desirable.  Some two or three minutes had passed before they reached the middle of the stream, which was, as Puddock afterwards remarked, ‘gigantically thwollen;’ and at this point they came to something very like a stand-still.

‘I say, Puddock, keep her head a little more up the stream, will you?’ said Cluffe, thinking no evil, and only to show his nautical knowledge.

‘It’s easy to say keep her head up the stream,’ gasped Puddock who was now labouring fearfully, and quite crimson in the face, tugging his words up with a desperate lisp, and too much out of breath to say more.

The shades of the night and the roar of the waters prevented Cluffe observing these omens aright.