‘Dhrink this, Puddock—­dhrink it,’ said O’Flaherty, filling a large glass in equal quantities with rum and water; ’dhrink it, my sinsare friend; it will studdy you, it will, upon my honour, Puddock!’

’But—­a—­thank you, Sir, I am anxious to understand exactly’—­said Puddock.  Here he was interrupted by a frightful grin and a ‘ha!’ from O’Flaherty, who darted to the door, and seizing his little withered French servant, who was entering, swung him about the room by his coat collar.

’So, Sorr, you’ve been prating again, have you, you desateful, idle old dhrunken miscreant; you did it on purpose, you blundherin’ old hyena; it’s the third jewel you got your masther into; and if I lose my life, divil a penny iv your wages ye’ll ever get—­that’s one comfort.  Yes, Sorr! this is the third time you have caused me to brew my hands in human blood; I dono’ if it’s malice, or only blundherin’.  Oh!’ he cried, with a still fiercer shake, ’it’s I that wishes I could be sure ’twas malice, I’d skiver you, heels and elbows, on my sword, and roast you alive on that fire.  Is not it a hard thing, my darlin’ Puddock, I can’t find out.’  He was still holding the little valet by the collar, and stretching out his right hand to Puddock.  ’But I am always the sport of misfortunes—­small and great.  If there was an ould woman to be handed in to supper—­or a man to be murthered by mistake—­or an ugly girl to be danced with, whose turn was it, ever and always to do the business, but poor Hyacinth O’Flaherty’s—­(tears).  I could tell you, Puddock,’ he continued, forgetting his wrath, and letting his prisoner go, in his eager pathos—­the Frenchman made his escape in a twinkling—­’I was the only man in our regiment that tuck the mazles in Cork, when it was goin’ among the children, bad luck to them—­I that was near dyin’ of it when I was an infant; and I was the only officer in the regiment, when we were at Athlone, that was prevented going to the race ball—­and I would not for a hundred pounds.  I was to dance the first minuet, and the first country dance, with that beautiful creature, Miss Rose Cox.  I was makin’ a glass of brandy punch—­not feelin’ quite myself—­and I dhressed and all, in our room, when Ensign Higgins, a most thoughtless young man, said something disrespectful about a beautiful mole she had on her chin; bedad, Sir, he called it a wart, if you plase! and feelin’ it sthrongly, I let the jug of scaldin’ wather drop on my knees; I wish you felt it, my darlin’ Puddock.  I was scalded in half a crack from a fut above my knees down to the last joint of my two big toes; and I raly thought my sinses were leving me.  I lost the ball by it.  Oh, ho, wirresthrue! poor Hyacinth O’Flaherty!’ and thereupon he wept.

‘You thee, Lieutenant O’Flaherty,’ lisped Puddock, growing impatient, ’we can’t say how soon Mr. Nutter’s friend may apply for an interview, and—­a—­I must confeth I don’t yet quite understand the point of difference between you and him, and therefore—­’