You all know the artillery butt.

Well, that was the centre of a circular enclosure containing just fifteen acres, with broad entrances eastward and westward.
The old fellows knew very well where to look.
Father Roach was quite accidentally there, reading his breviary when the hostile parties came upon the ground--for except when an accident of this sort occurred, or the troops were being drilled, it was a sequestered spot enough--and he forthwith joined them, as usual, to reconcile the dread debate.
Somehow, I think his arguments were not altogether judicious.
'I don't ask particulars, my dear--I abominate all that concerns a quarrel; but Lieutenant O'Flaherty, jewel, supposin' the very worst--supposin', just for argument, that he has horse-whipped you----.' 'An' who dar' suppose it ?' glared O'Flaherty.
'Or, we'll take it that he spit in your face, honey.

Well,' continued his reverence, not choosing to hear the shocking ejaculations which this hypothesis wrung from the lieutenant; 'what of that, my darlin'?
Think of the indignities, insults, and disgraces that the blessed Saint Martellus suffered, without allowing, anything worse to cross his lips than an Ave Mary or a smile in resignation.' 'Ordher the priest off the ground, Sorr,' said O'Flaherty, lividly, to little Puddock, who was too busy with Mr.Mahony to hear him; and Roach had already transferred his pious offices to Nutter, who speedily flushed up and became, to all appearances, in his own way just as angry as O'Flaherty.
'Lieutenant O'Flaherty, a word in your ear,' once more droned the mellow voice of Father Roach; 'you're a young man, my dear, and here's Lieutenant Puddock by your side, a young man too; I'm as ould, my honeys, as the two of you put together, an' I advise you, for your good--don't shed human blood--don't even draw your swords--don't, my darlins; don't be led or said by them army-gentlemen, that's always standin' up for fightin' because the leedies admire fightin' men.
They'll call you cowards, polthroons, curs, sneaks, turn-tails--let them!' 'There's no standin' this any longer, Puddock,' said O'Flaherty, incensed indescribably by the odious names which his reverence was hypothetically accumulating; 'if you want to see the fightin', Father Roach----.' 'Apage, Sathanas!' murmured his reverence, pettishly, raising his plump, blue chin, and dropping his eyelids with a shake of the head, and waving the back of his fat, red hand gently towards the speaker.
'In that case, stay here, an' look your full, an' welcome, only don't make a noise; behave like a Christian, an' hould your tongue; but if you really hate fightin', as you say----' Having reached this point in his address, but intending a good deal more, O'Flaherty suddenly stopped short, drew himself into a stooping posture, with a flush and a strange distortion, and his eyes fastened upon Father Roach with an unearthly glare for nearly two minutes, and seized Puddock upon the upper part of his arm with so awful a grip, in his great bony hand, that the gallant little gentleman piped out in a flurry of anguish-- 'O--O--O'Flaherty, Thir--_let_ go my arm, Thir.' O'Flaherty drew a long breath, uttered a short, deep groan, and wiping the moisture from his red forehead, and resuming a perpendicular position, was evidently trying to recover the lost thread of his discourse.
'There'th dethidedly thomething the matter with you, Thir,' said Puddock, anxiously, _sotto voce_, while he worked his injured arm's a little at the shoulder.
'You may say that,' said O'Flaherty, very dismally, and, perhaps, a little bitterly.
'And--and--and--you don't mean to thay--why--eh ?' asked Puddock, uneasily.
'I tell you what, Puddock--there's no use in purtendin'-- the poison's working--_that's_ what's the matter,' returned poor O'Flaherty, in what romance writers call 'a hissing whisper.' 'Good--merthiful--graciouth--Thir!' ejaculated poor little Puddock, in a panic, and gazing up into the brawny fireworker's face with a pallid fascination; indeed they both looked unpleasantly unlike the popular conception of heroes on the eve of battle.
'But--but it can't be--you forget Dr.Sturk and--oh, dear!--the antidote.

It--I thay--it can't _be_, Thir,' said Puddock, rapidly.
'It's no use, now; but I shirked two or three spoonfuls, and I left some more in the bottom,' said the gigantic O'Flaherty, with a gloomy sheepishness.
Puddock made an ejaculation--the only violent one recorded of him--and turning his back briskly upon his principal, actually walked several steps away, as if he intended to cut the whole concern.

But such a measure was really not to be thought of.
'O'Flaherty--Lieutenant--I won't reproach you,' began Puddock.
'_Reproach_ me! an' who _poisoned_ me, my tight little fellow ?' retorted the fireworker, savagely.
Puddock could only look at him, and then said, quite meekly-- 'Well, and my dear Thir, what on earth had we better do ?' 'Do,' said O'Flaherty, 'why isn't it completely Hobson's choice with us?
What can we do but go through with it ?' The fact is, I may as well mention, lest the sensitive reader should be concerned for the gallant O'Flaherty, that the poison had very little to do with it, and the antidote a great deal.