and its oyster-clubs.  These latter social meetings were held by rotation at the houses of the members of the club, which was composed of the choicest spirits of the town.  There Doctor McFadd, relaxing the dignity of professional reserve, condescended to play practical jokes on Corney Bryan, the bothered exciseman; and Skinner, the attorney, repeated all Lord Norbury’s best puns, and night after night told how, at some particular quarter sessions, he had himself said a better thing than ever Norbury uttered in his life.  But the soul of the club was Tom Connor—­who, by his inexhaustible fund of humorous anecdotes and droll stories, kept the table in a roar till a late hour in the night, or rather to an early hour in the morning.  Tom’s stories usually related to adventures which had happened to himself in his early days; and as he had experienced innumerable vicissitudes of fortune, in every part of the world, and under various characters, his narratives, though not remarkable for their strict adherence to truth, were always distinguished by their novelty.

One evening the club had met as usual, and Tom had mixed his first tumbler of potheen punch, after “the feast of shells” was over, when somebody happened to mention the name of Edmund Kean, with the remark that he had once played in a barn in that very town.

“True enough,” said Tom.  “I played in the same company with him.”

“You! you!” exclaimed several voices.

“Of course; but that was when I was a strolling actor in Clark’s corps.  We used to go the western circuit, and by that means got the name of ’the Connaught Rangers.’  There was a queer fellow in the company, called Ned Davis, an honest-hearted fellow he was, as ever walked in shoe leather.  Ned and I were sworn brothers; we shared the same bed, which was often only a ‘shake-down’ in the corner of a stable, and the same dinner, which was at times nothing better than a crust of brown bread and a draught of Adam’s ale.  I’ll trouble you for the bottle, doctor.  Thank you; may I never take worse stuff from your hands.  Talking of Ned Davis, I’ll tell you, if you have no objection of a strange adventure which befel us once.”

“Bravo! bravo! bravo!” was the unanimous cry from the members.

“Silence, gentlemen!” said the chairman imperatively; “silence for Mr. Connor’s story.”

“Hem!  Well then, some time about the year—­never mind the year—­Ned and I were playing with the company at Loughrea; business grew bad, and the salaries diminished with the houses, until at last, one morning at a rehearsal, the manager informed us that, in consequence of the depressed state of the drama in Galway, the treasury would be closed until further notice, and that he had come to the resolution to depart on the following morning for Castlebar, whither he requested the company to follow him without delay.  Fancy my consternation at this unexpected announcement!  I mechanically thrust my hands