’Well? well?—­oh, ay, very well, to be sure.  I’d like to know what the plague we’re to do now,’ grumbled Toole.

‘Your precious armour-bearer refuses to act then?’ asked Devereux.

’To be sure he does.  He sees you walking down the street, ready to die o’ laughing—­at nothing, by Jove!’ swore Toole, in deep disgust; ‘and—­and—­och! hang it! it’s all a confounded pack o’ nonsense.  Sir, if you could not keep grave for five minutes, you ought not to have come at all.  But what need I care?  It’s Nutter’s affair, not mine.’

’And well for him we failed.  Did you ever see such a fish?  He’d have shot himself or Nutter, to a certainty.  But there’s a chance yet:  we forgot the Nightingale Club; they’re still in the Phoenix.’

‘Pooh, Sir! they’re all tailors and green-grocers,’ said Toole, in high dudgeon.

‘There are two or three good names among them, however,’ answered Devereux; and by this time they were on the threshold of the Phoenix.

‘Larry,’ he cried to the waiter, ’the Nightingale Club is there, is it not?’ glancing at the great back parlour door.

‘Be the powers!  Captain, you may say that,’ said Larry, with a wink, and a grin of exquisite glee.

‘See, Larry,’ said Toole, with importance, ’we’re a little serious now; so just say if there’s any of the gentlemen there; you—­you understand, now; quite steady?  D’ye see me?’

Larry winked—­this time a grave wink—­looked down at the floor, and up to the cornice, and—­

‘Well,’ said he, ’to be candid with you, jest at this minute—­half-an-hour ago, you see, it was different—­the only gentleman I’d take on myself to recommend to you as perfectly sober is Mr. Macan, of Petticoat-lane.’

‘Is he in business?’ asked Toole.

‘Does he keep a shop?’ said Devereux.

‘A shop! two shops;—­a great man in the chandlery line,’ responded Larry.

‘H’m! not precisely the thing we want, though,’ says Toole.

‘There are some of them, surely, that don’t keep shops,’ said Devereux, a little impatiently.

‘Millions!’ said Larry.

‘Come, say their names.’

’Only one of them came this evening, Mr. Doolan, of Stonnybatther—­he’s a retired merchant.’

‘That will do,’ said Toole, under his breath, to Devereux.  Devereux nodded.

’Just, I say, tap him on the shoulder, and tell him that Dr. Toole, you know, of this town, with many compliments and excuses, begs one word with him,’ said the doctor.

’Hoo!  Docthur dear, he was the first of them down, and was carried out to his coach insensible jist when Mr. Crozier of Christ Church began, “Come Roger and listen;” he’s in his bed in Stonnybatther a good hour and a half ago.’

‘A retired merchant,’ says Devereux; ’well, Toole, what do you advise now?’

’By Jove, I think one of us must go into town.  ’Twill never do to leave poor Nutter in the lurch; and between ourselves, that O’Flaherty’s a—­a blood-thirsty idiot, by Jove—­and ought to be put down.’