“No man has a betther right to be a judge, and a good judge of dishonesty, than your father’s son,” replied Hourigan.  “Why didn’t you call me an oppressor of the poor, and a blood-sucker?—­why didn’t you say I was a hard-hearted beggarly upstart, that rose from maneness and cheatery, and am now tyrannizin’ over hundreds that’s a thousand times betther than myself?  Why don’t you say that I’d sell my church and my religion to their worst enemies, and that for the sake of filthy lucre and blackguard upstart pride?  I now come to tell you what we all think of you in this country, and what I believe some of us has tould you already—­that you may go to hell for your tithe, and make the divil your paymaster, what he’ll be yet.  We will pay you none, and we set you and your upstart ould rogue of a father, with the law, the polis, and the army, all at defiance.  I don’t choose to say more, but I could if I liked.”

Purcell’s hunting-whip accidentally lay on the table at which he sat, but he did not take it up immediately after Hourigan had concluded.  He quickly rose, however, and having closed the door and locked it, he let down the windows, and deliberately drew the blinds.

“Now, you scoundrel,” he replied, taking up the whip, and commencing to flog Hourigan with all his strength, which was very great, “I will give you, by way of foretaste, a specimen of what a ruffian like you deserves when he is insolent.”

With such singular energy, good will, and admirable effect did he lace Mr. Hourigan, that the latter worthy, after cutting some very antic capers, and exhibiting in a good many other respects several proofs of his agility that could scarcely be expected from his heavy and ungainly figure, was at last fairly obliged to sing out,—­“Oh, Misther John, Misther John! you will—­Misther John, darlin’, what do you mane, you murdh—­oh, oh, d—­n your soul—­dear, what do you mane, Mr. John, dear?  I say, what are you at?  What do you baste me this way for—­oh, may the divil—­the Lord bless you, an’ don’t—­here I am—­here, Misther John, I ax your pardon—­hell pursue—­Misther John, darlin’, I go down on my knees to you, an’ axes your pardon—­here now you see, I’m down.—­Och murdher, am I to have the very sowl welted out o’ me this way?”

Mr. John, having now satisfied himself, and left very visible marks of his attachment and good will to Hourigan, upon that individual’s face and person, desired him to get up.

“Now, my good fellow,” he exclaimed, “I trust I have taught you a lesson that you won’t forget.”

“No, Misther John,” he replied, rising and rubbing himself in different parts of the body, as if to mitigate the pain which he felt; “no, I won’t forget it—­I won’t by it’s a lesson I’ll remember, and so will you.”

“What do you mean, you cowardly villain?” asked Purcel, once more raising his whip.  “You are threatening, are you.”

“No, Misther John, not a bit o’ that—­divil a threat—­me!  I wouldn’t threaten you if there wasn’t niver another man in Europe.  Let me out, if you plaise—­let me out, and may the div—­the Lord lov you!”