“Ah,” replied Darby, “the hemp is grown for you, and the rope is purchased that will soon be greased for your last tug.  Why didn’t you pay your bill, I say?”

“I told you before, most potent, that that fact originated in a deficiency of assets.”

“I rather think, Mr. Gray,” said Darby, “that it originated in a very different kind of deficiency—­a deficiency of inclination, my buck.”

“In both, most reverend senior, and I act on scriptural principles; for what does Job say?  ‘Base is the slave that patient pays.’”

“Well, my good fellow, if you don’t pay, you’ll be apt to receive, some fine day, that’s all,” and here he made a motion with his arm, as if he were administering the cat-o’-nine-tails; “however, this is not my business.  Here comes Mrs. Mulroony to make her charge.  I accordingly shove you over to Ned Nightcap, the officer for the night.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Gray, “I see, most potent, you have operated before.  Kow-de-dow-de-dow, my boy.  There was a professional touch in that jerk that couldn’t be mistaken:  that quiver at the wrist was beautiful, and the position of the arm a perfect triangle.  It must have been quite a pleasure to have suffered from such a scientific hand as yours.  How do you do again, Mrs. Mulroony?  Mrs. Mulroony, I hope you did not come without some refreshment.  And you’ll withdraw the charge, for the sake of futurity, Mrs. Mulroony.”

“If you do, Mrs. Mulroony,” said Darby, “I’m afraid you’ll have to look to futurity for payment.  I mean to that part of it commonly called ’to-morrow comenever.’—­Make your charge, ma’am.”

Here a pale-faced, sinister-looking old fellow, in a red woollen nightcap, with baggy protuberances hanging under his red bleared eyes, now came to a little half door, inside of which stood his office for receiving all charges against the various delinquents that the Charlies, or watchmen of the period, had conducted to him.

“Here,” said he, in a hoarse, hollow voice, “what’s this—­what’s this?  Another charge against you, Mr. Gray?  Garvy,” said he, addressing a watchman, “tell them vagabones that if they don’t keep, quiet I’ll put them in irons.”

This threat was received with a chorus of derision by those to whom it was addressed, and the noise was increased so furiously, that it resembled the clamor of Babel.

“Here, Garvy,” said honest Ned, “tickle some of them a bit.  Touch up that bullet-headed house-breaker that’s drunk—­Sam Stancheon, they call him—­lave a nate impression of the big kay on his head; he’ll undherstand it, you know; and there’s Molly Brady, or Emily Howard, as she calls herself, give her a clink on the noddle to stop her jinteelity.  Blast her pedigree; nothing will serve her but she must be a lady on our hands.  Tell her I’ll not lave a copper ring or a glass brooch on her body if she’s not quiet.”