“Come, then,” replied Harry, “as you appear to be a comical old scoundrel, I don’t care, for the joke’s sake, if I do.  I am coming to court Miss Riddle, ridiculous old Cockletown’s niece.”

“Why are you coming to court her?”

“Because I understand she will have a good fortune after old Cockle takes his departure.”

“Eh, confound me, but that’s odd; why, you are a devilish queer fellow.  Did you ever see Lord Cockletown?”

“Not I,” replied Harry; “nor I don’t care a curse whether I do or not, provided I had his niece secure.”

“Did you ever see the niece?”

“Don’t annoy me, sirrah.  No, I didn’t; neither do I care if I never did, provided I secure old Cockle’s money and property.  If it could be so managed, I would prefer being married to her in the dark.”

The old peer walked two or three times through the room in a kind of good-humored perplexity, raising his wig and scratching his head under it, and surveying Woodward from time to time with a serio-comic expression.

“Of course you are a profligate, for that is the order of the day?”

“Why, of course I am,” replied Harry.

“Any intrigues—­eh?”

“Indeed,” replied the other, pulling a long face, “I am ashamed to answer you on that subject.  Intrigues!  I regret to say only half a dozen yet, but my prospects in that direction are good.”

“Have you fought?  Did you ever commit murder?”

“It can scarcely be called by that name.  It was in tavern brawls; one was a rascally cockleman, and the other a rascally oyster-man.”

“How did you manage the oysterman with a knife, eh?”

“No, sirrah; with my sword I did him open.”

“Have you any expectation of being hanged?”

“Why, according to the life I have led, I think there is every probability that I may reach that honorable position.”

The old peer could bear this no longer.  He burst out into a loud laugh, which lasted upwards of two minutes.

“Faith,” said Harry, “if you had such a prospect before you, I don’t think you would consider it such a laughing matter.”

“Curse you, sir, do you know who I am?”

“Curse yourself, sir,” replied the other, “no, I don’t; how should I, when I never saw you before?”

“Sir, I am Lord Cockletown.”

“And, sir, I am Harry Woodward, son—­favorite son—­to, Mrs. Lindsay of Rathfillan House.”

“What! are you a son of that old fagot?”

“Her favorite son, as I said; that old fagot, sir, is my mother.”

“Ay, but who was your father?” asked his lordship, with a grin, “for that’s the rub.”

“That is the rub,” said Woodward, laughing; “how the devil can I tell?”

“Good again,” said his lordship; “confound me but you are a queer one.  I tell you what, I like you.”

“I don’t care a curse whether you do or not, provided your niece does.”