“If they don’t,” replied Finigan, “the alternative is in no shape enigmatical.  Mark what I’ve already said, gintlemen.  Sparable, do you keep a faithful journal of the delinquents; and observe that there are offices of importance in this world besides flagellating erudition into reptiles like you.”

He then looked about him with an air of vast importance, and joined Hycy on his way to the public-house.  Having ordered in the worthy pedagogue’s favorite beverage, not forgetting something of the same kind for himself, he addressed Finigan as follows:—­

“Finigan, I received a devilish queer letter from you to-day—­take your liquor in the mean time—­what did you mean by it?”

“From me, Mr. Hycy—­nego, I say—­pugnis et calc bu nego.”

“Come, come, you know you wrote me an anonymous letter, referring to some ridiculous copartnership or other that I can neither make head nor tail of.  Tell me candidly what you meant.”

“Very good, Mr. Burke; but sure I know of old that jocularity was always your forte—­even when laying in under my own instruction that sound classical substratum on which the superstructure of your subsequent knowledge was erected, you were always addicted to the facetious and the fabulous—­both of which you contrived to blend together with an ease and volubility of language that could not be surpassed.”

“That is all very well; but you need not deny that you wrote me the letter.  Let me ask you seriously, what was it you warned me against?”

“Propino tibi salulem—­here’s to you.  No, but let me ask you what you are at, Mr. Hycy?  You may have resaved an anonymous letter, but I am ignorant why you should paternize it upon me.”

“Why, because it has all the marks and tokens of you.”

“Eh?—­to what does that amount?  Surely you know my handwriting?”

“Perfectly; but this is disguised evidently.”

“Faith,” said the other, laughing, “maybe the inditer of it was disguised when he wrote it.”

“It might be,” replied Hycy; “however, take your liquor, and in the mean time I shall feel exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Finigan, if you will tell me the truth at once—­whether you wrote it or whether you did not?”

“My response again is in the negative,” replied Finigan—­“I disclaim it altogether.  I am not the scribe, you may rest assured of it, nor can I say who is.”

“Well, then,” said Hycy, “I find I must convict you yourself of the fabulous at least; read that,” said he, placing the letter in his own hands.  “Like a true Irishman you signed your name unconsciously; and now what have you to say for yourself?”

“Simply,” replied the other, “that some knave, of most fictitious imagination, has forged my name to it.  No man can say that that is my manuscription, Mr. Hycy.”  These words he uttered with great coolness; and Hycy, who was in many things a shrewd young fellow, deemed it better to wait until the liquor, which was fast disappearing, should begin to operate.  At length, when about three-quarters of an hour had passed, he resolved to attack his vanity.