‘Tom-foolery, Sir, is an unpleasant word!’ cried the little doctor, firing up, for he was a game-cock.

‘Tom Toolery he means,’ interposed Devereux, ’the pleasantest word, on the contrary, in Chapelizod.  Pray, allow me to say a word a degree more serious.  I’m commissioned, Lieutenant Puddock and Lieutenant O’Flaherty’ (a bow to each), ’by Mr. Mahony, who acted the part of second to Mr. Nutter, on the recent occasion, to pray that you’ll be so obliging as to accept his apology for not being present at this, as we all hope most agreeable meeting.  Our reverend friend, Father Roach whose guest he had the honour to be, can tell you more precisely the urgent nature of the business on which he departed.’

Father Roach tried to stop the captain with a reproachful glance, but that unfeeling officer fairly concluded his sentence notwithstanding, with a wave of his hand and a bow to the cleric; and sitting down at the same moment, left him in possession of the chair.

The fact was, that at an unseemly hour that morning three bailiffs—­for the excursion was considered hazardous—­introduced themselves by a stratagem into the reverend father’s domicile, and nabbed the high-souled Patrick Mahony, as he slumbered peacefully in his bed, to the terror of the simple maid who let them in.  Honest Father Roach was for showing fight on behalf of his guest.  On hearing the row and suspecting its cause—­for Pat had fled from the kingdom of Kerry from perils of the same sort—­his reverence jumped out of bed with a great pound on the floor, and not knowing where to look for his clothes in the dark, he seized his surplice, which always lay in the press at the head of his bed, and got into it with miraculous speed, whisking along the floor two pounds and a half of Mr. Fogarty’s best bacon, which the holy man had concealed in the folds of that sacred vestment, to elude the predatory instincts of the women, and from which he and Mr. Mahony were wont to cut their jovial rashers.

The shutter of poor Mahony’s window was by this time open, and the gray light disclosed the grimly form of Father Roach, in his surplice, floating threateningly into the chamber.  But the bailiffs were picked men, broad-shouldered and athletic, and furnished with active-looking shillelaghs.  Veni, vidi, victus sum! a glance showed him all was lost.

‘My blessin’ an you, Peg Finigan! and was it you let them in?’ murmured his reverence, with intense feeling.

‘At whose suit?’ enquired the generous outlaw, sitting up among the blankets.

’Mrs. Elizabeth Woolly, relict and administhrathrix of the late Mr. Timotheus Woolly, of High-street, in the city of Dublin, tailor,’ responded the choragus of the officers.

‘Woolly—­I was thinkin’ so,’ said the captive.  ’I wisht I had her by the wool, bad luck to her!’

So away he went, to the good-natured ecclesiastic’s grief, promising, nevertheless, with a disconsolate affectation of cheerfulness, that all should be settled, and he under the Priest’s roof-tree again before night.