‘Rather too much of a gale for my taste, thanking you again,’ answered Toole with a cosy chuckle; ’but, if you’re bent on the trip, and can’t wait, why, at least, let’s have a glass together before parting.’

‘With all my heart, what you will.  Shall it be punch?’

‘Punch be it.  Come, hang saving; get us up a ha’porth of whiskey,’ said little Toole, gaily.

’Hallo, Mrs. Irons, Madam, will you do us the favour to make a bowl of punch as soon as may be?’ cried Devereux, over the banister.

‘Come, Toole,’ said Devereux, ’I’m very dismal.  Losses and crosses, and deuce knows what.  Whistle or talk, what you please, I’ll listen; tell me anything; stories of horses, dogs, dice, snuff, women, cocks, parsons, wine—­what you will.  Come, how’s Sturk?  He’s beaten poor Nutter, and won the race; though the stakes, after all, were scarce worth taking—­and what’s life without a guinea?—­he’s grown, I’m told, so confoundedly poor, “quis pauper? avarus.”  A worthy man was Sturk, and, in some respects, resembled the prophet, Shylock; but you know nothing of him—­why the plague don’t you read your Bible, Toole?’

‘Well,’ said Toole, candidly, ’I don’t know the Old Testament as well as the New; but certainly, whoever he’s like, he’s held out wonderfully.  ’Tis nine weeks since he met that accident, and there he’s still, above ground; but that’s all—­just above ground, you see.’

‘And how’s Cluffe?’

’Pooh, Cluffe indeed!  Nothing ever wrong with him but occasional over-eating.  Sir, you’d a laughed to-day had you seen him.  I gave him a bolus, twice the size of a gooseberry.  “What’s this?” said he.  “A bolus,” says I.  “The devil,” says he; “dia-bolus, then,” says I—­“hey?” said I, “well?” ha! ha! and by Jove, Sir, it actually half stuck in his oesophagus, and I shoved it down like a bullet, with a probang; you’d a died a laughing, yet ’twasn’t a bit too big.  Why, I tell you, upon my honour, Mrs. Rebecca Chattesworth’s black boy, only t’other day, swallowed a musket bullet twice the size, ha! ha!—­he did—­and I set him to rights in no time with a little powder.’

‘Gunpowder?’ said Devereux.  ’And what of O’Flaherty?  I’m told he was going to shoot poor Miles O’More.’

’Ha, ha! hey?  Well, I don’t think either remembered in the morning what they quarrelled about,’ replied Toole; ‘so it went off in smoke, Sir.’

‘Well, and how is Miles?’

’Why, ha, ha! he’s back again, with a bill, as usual, and a horse to sell—­a good one—­the black one, don’t you remember?  He wants five and thirty guineas; ’tisn’t worth two pounds ten.  “Do you know anyone who wants him?  I would not mind taking a bill, with a couple of good names upon it,” says he.  Upon my credit I believe he thought I’d buy him myself.  “Well,” says I, “I think I do know a fellow that would give you his value, and pay you cash besides,” says I.  ’Twas as good as a play to see his face.  “Who is he?” says he, taking me close by the arm.  “The knacker,” says I.  ‘Twas a bite for Miles; hey? ha, ha, ha!’